


Binary Star

by Mice



Series: Binary Star [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Pre-Canon, everyone knows her name isn't really anthea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-22 06:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 24,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22511875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice
Summary: Mycroft Holmes doesn't really believe in soulbonds, but he's willing to act with a certain suspension of disbelief.  The idea of having a friend who is his perfect complement seems impossible. Meeting Greg Lestrade is a life-changing experience.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Binary Star [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640599
Comments: 631
Kudos: 492
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020





	1. Miss Austen and the Absurdity of Soulmates

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually post WIPs but my health is currently a mess and I'm not up to writing a complete story all at once, so I'll be posting vignettes set in the same story universe, complete in themselves but linked. There will be no cliffhangers here. I do have an end point planned, but I'm uncertain how long it will take to get there. Thanks to Mottlemoth for being encouraging about plot points and the very idea of actually posting a WIP.
> 
> ***ETA
> 
> Okay, so this part of the work is done. I plan to add more to this as a series, but this felt like a really nice place to leave the opening section, as it meshes with the beginning of canon. Remember that this will be a canon-divergent series, so things may not go quite as you think. I hope you enjoyed it!

Mycroft frowned at the open pages of the book in his hands. "Mummy," he said, "why does Miss Austen talk so much about soulmates? I mean, isn't it like Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny; all well and good for infants, but surely by the time one reaches ten, one should be past such things?"

Mummy chuckled. "Mikey, soul bonds are rare, but they certainly do exist."

He looked up at her from his chair in their library, his little nose scrunched up with juvenile disgust. "Why on earth would anyone _want_ a soulmate? People are stupid and boring. Whatever would one do with such a thing?"

Mummy shook her head. "Soulbonds exist because the people who are bound are the perfect complement for each other. They are meant to be the very best of friends." Mycroft closed his copy of _Sense and Sensibility_ and waited, because Mummy was obviously not finished. "Because they are so rare, it can be very, very hard to find the person one is bonded to." She gazed out the window for a moment. "Professor Norwington has a soulbond, you know."

Mycroft's brow wrinkled. "He does?"

She nodded. "You've met Mr. Farouk, the gardener at the university?"

"He's Professor Norwington's soulmate? But I thought he lived with Professor Jameson? Professor Norwington, I mean. Not Mr. Farouk -- Mr. Farouk is married and has six children."

"Oh, yes. One's soulmate isn't necessarily the person one falls in love with, though that can happen. Most often, a soulmate is one's closest, dearest friend. But the world is a very large place and there is no guarantee that a soulbond is with someone who lives nearby. Professor Norwington met Mr. Farouk while they were both working on an archaeological dig in Egypt many years ago. Mr. Farouk was one of the laborers on the dig, and Professor Norwington was one of the archaeologists."

"So… Mr. Farouk and his family moved here to be near Professor Norwington?" It would have had to be a very important friendship for someone to move to a different country.

"It's entirely possible that soulbonds are more common than we realize, but the vast population on our planet makes it very, very difficult for such individuals to meet. Mr. Farouk and Professor Norwington and their families talked for some five years after they met. Professor Norwington would have taken a position at the University of Cairo archaeology department, but the Egyptian government frowns upon relationships like his with Professor Jameson. And so they decided to sponsor Mr. Farouk and his family into England under the Soulbond Visa program."

"But why would they be so rare? And how could you ever tell if you even had a soulbond with someone?" Mycroft set his book on the table, rather fascinated and slightly repulsed by the idea of being bound to someone he didn't even know. He wasn't sure whether he'd want a soulmate at all or not. People were so… slow.

"I'm told it's like seeing someone bathed in light." Mummy got up and went to the bookshelves, pulling down a volume on the history of religious iconography. She opened to a double page spread in brilliant colors of Byzantine icons. "It's why so many religions show their deities or spirits with halos, Mikey. It's meant to imply that the figure in question is everyone's soulmate. That god, if you will, is bonded to each of us."

"Miss Austen describes the entire concept as finding someone who completes you."

"Oh, no," Mummy tutted. "Not at all. No one is incomplete, Mikey. Think of it instead as being like a binary star system. No star is incomplete, but the binary stars find a common centre of gravity and become completely inseparable. They orbit one another so closely that they seem to the naked eye as one star whose brightness varies as they circle each other."

The idea of a soulbond as some mathematically fixed stellar phenomenon sounded a bit more interesting than all that emotional balderdash. "How does anyone know all this?"

Mummy sighed but smiled. "I'll tell you what. After lunch today, we'll have Father watch little Billy for a few hours and I shall take you to the university library, where you can do a little research. They have the entire series of the "International Journal of Soulbond Studies" and I'm sure you'll find many of the answers you want."

Mycroft's grey eyes lit like the sun. "Really? A research trip to the library?"

Mummy grinned and nodded. "If you go and do your algebra now, we'll go after lunch." 

Mycroft bounded out of his chair and bounced out of the room, chanting "Library trip! Library trip!"


	2. In Which Racists Gonna Racist

Detective Inspector Bingham glowered at the body on the ground in front of him. The alley was gory and dank, stinking of garbage and human intestines. "It's all a bunch of bloody superstition, Lestrade," he growled. "Only idiots and savages believe in that soulmate tripe. Never met an intelligent white man who did. It's all a bunch of Africans scamming for British citizenship, you mark my words."

Greg shifted uncomfortably as he crouched next to the body in the chilly drizzle. Contradicting superiors wasn't wise, but Bingham's racism couldn't be let go, either. "My aunt and uncle are soulmates, sir. They're from Brighton, both of 'em. White as fish bellies. Met in year four, as they tell it. Been inseparable ever since." 

There was no question the murder had to do with a con game being run by a Nigerian couple recently arrived in London, but to infer from that one fact that therefore everyone from an African country living in the UK was somehow guilty or superstitious or just plain stupid was ludicrous. Greg wanted to punch the man. He grit his teeth, not wanting to get himself disciplined.

"Lying to you. Stars in your eyes, Lestrade. You're probably idiot enough to believe in that bullshit yourself, being fed that from an early age."

Greg finished bagging some fibers from the body. "What I do or don't believe isn't really relevant to the investigation. Sir." He kept his head down. Meeting the DI's eyes would probably be seen as a direct challenge to his authority.

"You'd best listen to me, Constable, if you ever want to move up in the ranks."

Greg eyed the bony blond bastard from under the brim of his cap, figuring discretion was the better part of valor at this point and promised himself he'd file an anonymous report to their superiors about the blatant racism. It wasn't like this was the first incident, after all. "Of course, Sir. Like you say, Sir." He was almost due to get off shift, and as soon as he wrote up his report from this mess, he'd be off to the pub with some mates. Maybe he'd be able to get some of his frustration off his chest with them.

He'd grown up hearing the stories from his aunt and uncle of the day they met, of their childhood friendship and eventual courtship and marriage. They were the happiest couple he'd ever known. It wasn't that Nina and Ted never argued, but they _loved_ each other with an intensity Greg had never seen elsewhere. Something about them just _fit_ , and the air around them almost hummed with joy when he saw them together. The idea that he should have to defend that against his DI's prejudice stuck in his craw like a stone. It was like tarnishing something sacred, an oil sludge slicked across a pristine pond. The man disgusted him. Greg vowed he'd never be like Bingham when he made DI.

Yeah. He believed in soulbonds. Wished like hell he had one, but knew the odds were next to none that two people in his family might get that lucky. He had a girlfriend, at least. They were talking like it might get serious, but it was early days yet. Another year or so and maybe they'd move in together. It wasn't like soulmates, but they got on okay and the sex was good. She was a teacher and she loved kids; Greg liked that about her. 

It was enough. Meeting somebody and falling in love was enough for normal people, for the vast majority of the human race. People lucky enough to get a soulmate, to be bonded to someone that way, even as a friend, were lucky bastards. And yeah, okay, maybe Greg was a little jealous sometimes, but he'd never begrudge folks like that their happiness or their connection. The world was a fucked up place, and there wasn't nearly enough love in it.

Never enough love in it.


	3. Uncle Rudy's Words

"What is it, my boy. You look quite upset." Uncle Rudy gestured to a chair by the fireplace and Mycroft entered from where he'd been hesitating at the door.

"Sherlock," he said. "He… he doesn't remember her anymore. Nothing. He doesn't remember Victor. We've had to replace those memories with a reference to Redbeard, a dog we never had, because erasing the memory entirely seems impossible. Anything that comes even close to reminding him of _her_ sends him into a breakdown."

Rudy nodded. "It's really for the best. What happened was terrible. She's locked away where she can't hurt him now."

"But it's not right that he shouldn't remember any of it, that he should be made to live with what amounts to a gaping wound in his psyche. Who knows what that will do to him as he ages? And now that I'm off for Cambridge, he's decided that… that everything that's gone wrong is my fault. That I've deserted him." Mycroft shuffled uncomfortably in the chair his uncle had offered him. He knotted his fingers together in his lap, hands tightly joined, like the knotted roots of trees. His chest was tight with unshed tears. At least his little brother was still alive. At least Mycroft was still alive; she'd tried to burn him to death in Musgrave that night. The smell of acrid smoke and the heat of the flames still haunted his dreams.

"Oh, my dear boy. When will you learn that you shouldn't care so much? It's really not to your advantage. It dulls the mind and destroys the intellect. If lying to your parents and to Sherlock about this keeps them safe, that should be sufficient reward in itself. If you absolutely must love them, and I suppose by society's standards you should, then you need to do it from a safe distance, detached from the depth of emotion that destroys logic."

"That sounds like a very cold, lonely life, Uncle Rudy." Mycroft had never felt close to anyone outside of his family, but he loved his little brother. He loved his parents despite how Mummy always belittled him and gave more love and attention to Sherlock and Euros. Rudy was right, in that sense. Love of other people had never given him anything but pain. Perhaps he should attempt more detachment. "At any rate, I'm thinking of joining the Foreign Service. Starting over somewhere outside of England after I finish my education."

"The Foreign Service? Why would you waste your intellect on that lot? Second rate brains, at best. No, no, you should follow in my footsteps. I'll retire in a few years and by that time you would certainly be ready to step into the gap."

The Foreign Service would take him away, bring him to places where -- perhaps -- there was some slim chance that he might find a soulbond. Someone whose friendship wouldn't cause him pain. Someone who might care for him despite his manifold flaws, his anxieties, his traumatic family life. Someone that he could care for without feeling guilty, or obligated purely for reasons of blood ties. It was ludicrous to think he should be so lucky. Mycroft was never lucky. His only brush with 'luck' was the fact that he'd survived his sister with enough of his sanity intact to still look after his baby brother, who now hated him. "Do you really think I would be suited to the intelligence services? That I could be an analyst at your level?"

Rudy shrugged, offering Mycroft a cup of tea. "A few years in the field with MI6 would give you the necessary background but, with your gift for languages and your ability to understand patterns and logic, it would be child's play for you. It's true that you haven't the intellectual gifts of your sister, but neither have you her fatal flaws and psychoses. You've a far more stable personality. You're _reliable_ , Mycroft. It's your greatest gift. Your sense of duty and responsibility is impeccable. The whole of the western world could rely upon you and, properly used, your skills could turn the tide of civilization for a generation, at least."

Reliable. Mycroft sighed sadly. What a thing to be one's 'greatest gift.' He sipped at his tea, pensive. "I'm not so sure I'd like legwork, Uncle. A little theatre could be diverting, but the risk to life and limb?"

Rudy chuckled. "If your theatrics are sufficiently convincing, my boy, there's very little risk. And in a few years you'd be safely ensconced in an office, with security officers between you and any potential dangers. You'll be home again before you know it."

Mycroft was deeply torn between wanting to leave everything behind and a desperate need to monitor Sherlock's increasingly unstable, self-destructive reactions to his boredom. The Foreign Service would likely take him out of England for decades. He'd have to completely detach himself from his family. The Intelligence Services would only take him away temporarily. They'd eventually give him access to potential ways of monitoring Sherlock for his own good.

Ultimately, Mycroft knew, he couldn't abandon Sherlock despite his brother's anger. His parents seemed incapable of actually understanding the nature of the danger that Euros, and Sherlock's own self-destructive tendencies posed. Rudy was right. Hiding her continued existence was for the best. Even Sherlock's memory loss was more advantage than not.

"All right," Mycroft said, nodding. "I'll do as you say. I suppose I should expect a visit from someone soon." There was little hope for him to have a life of his own. It was best he should accept it early and embrace whatever power and protection his future position would grant him. He had to relinquish his childish dream of finding a soulmate and instead embrace the responsibilities of adulthood and the burden of power.


	4. Tensions

"What's got you so sucked into the computer?" Karen asked, resting a hand on Greg's shoulder.

"It's this bloody case," Greg grumbled. "How in the name of god does somebody die of _hypothermia_ in a _sauna_?" He threw his hands in the air in disgust. "Been searching medical websites all damned day and not a hint." He sighed and clicked from his email over to his web browser. "Found this bloke, though, with a blog called 'The Science of Deduction.' Comes across as a complete wanker but seems to know what he's talking about, so I'm sending him an email to ask him to look into it."

"Can you do that?" Karen leaned down to look at the web page. "I mean, bring in some consultant when it's a police matter? Isn't investigating this stuff your job?"

Greg buried his face in his hands and scrubbed for a moment before looking up at her. "We need to find out what happened. Was it murder or was it some kind of freak accident? Because if it was murder, we've got somebody out there who could do it again. And catching them is more important than my ego, isn't it?"

"Well, I suppose, if you put it like that, yeah. But you're not stupid, Greg."

"No," he sighed. "I'm just desperate. Nothing about this case makes sense!" He finished typing the email, added his signature lines, and sent it off.

"Maybe you just… need to come at it fresh tomorrow or something."

Greg closed the laptop and stood. "I've been coming at it 'fresh' every morning for two fucking weeks. It's driving me mad," he snapped.

Karen backed away, eyes narrowed. "Well, don't get upset with _me_ over that."

Confused, Greg looked at her for a moment. Damn, it always seemed to devolve into this, didn't it? "That's… I'm not mad at you, I'm frustrated with myself. With this damned case." He wished he had someone he could talk to who didn't take it personally when work frustrated him. "Look, I'm just gonna go down to the pub for a pint, try to get my mind out of it for an hour or so. Maybe see if this bloke gets back to me tonight or tomorrow."

She nodded. "Yeah, probably for the best. Go cool off a bit. I don't like to deal with you when you're angry."

"But I'm not... " He sighed sadly. "Never mind. I'll be back in a while." Greg grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and slipped it on. He didn't want to fight with her. There never seemed to be a real reason for it, and it always turned out for the best if he just got himself out of Karen's hair for a bit. She'd be fine in the morning. She always was.


	5. Evaluation

His brother had consulted with this Detective Inspector Gregory Allen Lestrade three times. Mycroft leafed through the file on the man. With three meetings in the last six months, it seemed he would be a fixture in Sherlock's life, so perhaps it was time to meet the man, speak with him, assure himself that Lestrade wasn't trying to rise through the ranks on Sherlock's coattails rather than his own merits.

On paper he looked innocent enough, but so many did who were not. In his early 40s, Lestrade had a longstanding but troubled marriage to Karen Lestrade née Gyles. He showed every sign of faithful monogamy, while she seemed inclined to stray. There was some question as to whether Lestrade himself was consciously aware of this fact. Mycroft suspected not.

His solve rate was good, even without Sherlock's help, and he appeared to call him in only on the more unusual cases. He seemed well liked and respected at work, though the man displayed a bit of an irritable temper from time to time. That, of course, could be a problem with Mycroft's volatile brother added to the mix. Mycroft flipped through a few more pages and found references to him kicking tyres at frustrating crime scenes, and one incident of a punched wall, resulting in a sprained wrist. He'd apparently never repeated the action, having actually learned his lesson the first time. He'd have to be monitored for potential violence, though he'd never been reported for mistreating a suspect, nor violent acts in his private life.

The surveillance photos suggested Lestrade was handsome in an unassuming way. He had broad shoulders and dark hair, already a bit salt and pepper. His eyes were dark, with tired shadows beneath them. All in all, he seemed a solid lower-middle class sort, very salt of the earth. His academic scores had never been brilliant but he was intelligent as goldfish went, and astute enough to ask for help when it was needed rather than wallowing in ego and failing. He occasionally played the ponies, and lost more than he won, but kept it to a moderate sum, his accounts unendangered by an actual gambling addiction. Apparently not blackmailable, which was a distinct relief. Lestrade smoked, was fond of a pint at the pub, and played with a casual football team on the weekends. Like many adults of his age, he'd occasionally indulged in cannabis in his youth, but there was no sign of trafficking or addiction to anything beyond nicotine. 

Probably trustworthy, Mycroft concluded, but he had to evaluate such contacts in person when it came to Sherlock, who was manipulative and inclined to push the boundaries of everyone around him simply because he could. Sherlock's tendency toward the uncensored and unwelcome revelation of personal details had pushed more than one previously stable person into violent action.

It would probably be best to interact with the Detective Inspector at work, rather than apprehend him and bring him to an isolated spot. Let him believe he held the power in the situation, at least initially. He considered how much to offer Lestrade in return for information about his brother, given that he wasn't desperately in debt. Mycroft doubted he'd take the money regardless of the amount offered, but one could not be absolutely certain. It was best to know these things before allowing continuing contact with Sherlock.

Mycroft checked his schedule and considered when best to approach his brother's police contact.


	6. Beacon

It was an on-call night and Greg had, in fact, been called in. During dinner. He hadn't missed Karen's silent disappointment. Nor her silent disapproval.

There were two bodies on the docks, most likely related to drug or possibly human trafficking. Nothing even close to interesting or difficult enough to call in his occasionally drug-addled consulting wanker.

The night was cold, rainy, and miserable and Greg's stomach growled for having missed most of his food, abandoned half-eaten on the dining table. The only thing keeping him warm at the moment was a cigarette as he watched the forensics team collect evidence under the hastily erected shelter on the waterfront. The scent of brackish water and sewage hung in the air. Greg wrinkled his nose and exhaled smoke, wanting to clear the smell from his nostrils. His shoulders were tight and he shivered a bit in the rain.

As he watched, a flash black car pulled up near the tape that marked off the crime scene. Nondescript. Dark tinted windows. It rode suspiciously low and Greg figured the thing was armored like a tank. He looked back at the covered forensic scene, wondering how high this went and what kind of international connections these two dead bastards had. Maybe it wasn't just trafficking, but terrorism. Wouldn't that just make his night.

Greg sighed and dropped the dog-end into a puddle. It fizzled and went out.

The rear door opened and a black umbrella opened against the rain, sheltering and obscuring whoever was getting out of the car. Donovan was already on her way to intercept, but Greg ambled in that direction as well, knowing he'd have to deal with whatever official bollocks was about to hit the fan. As he approached, he straightened his shoulders, adjusted his scarf, and projected his best Detective Inspector and Man In Charge persona.

The umbrella shifted and the man beneath it stopped and looked at him, eyes wide, his face the very picture of shock. Greg knew his own face must be a reflection of it as well. That light -- the one Nina and Ted always talked about -- shone from the man like a beacon. They both stood in silence for a moment before Greg recovered something close to his wits.

He was tall. Taller than Greg by a couple of inches at least. Slender. Dressed to kill in something bespoke and obscenely expensive. He had a long, beaky nose and a desperately receding hairline. Poor bloke would probably be bald as an egg in about ten years. Thin lips. He had light eyes, maybe blue or grey but it was hard to tell. None of it mattered.

Greg held out a hand to him, a broad grin opening his face. "I'm Greg Lestrade. I can't even begin to tell you how pleased I am to meet you."

The man reached out and took his hand. "M-Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. And everything I was about to say to you is suddenly completely irrelevant."


	7. Panic! at the Crime Scene

He'd had everything prepared for their initial meeting; what he'd say, how he would present himself, options for vague but effective threats disguised as suggestions. He would gain Lestrade's cooperation, or his compliance, to keep Sherlock safe. Mycroft believed that little of it would be necessary, as he suspected the detective would be open to continuing to work with his brother, but it paid to have all the avenues covered in the event of any unforeseen circumstances.

When he was informed that Lestrade had been called out for a double murder on the docks, Mycroft felt the time had arrived. The night was rainy and chill, and the setting sufficiently dramatic to ensure that his appearance would command attention. The situation was practically guaranteed to leave Lestrade feeling both slightly off balance and assured of his authority and control. Mycroft would be able to swiftly take that sense from him if it became in any way necessary.

The weather was miserable and the rain had picked up as Mycroft's car approached the scene. He opened his umbrella canopy as he opened the car door, watching the Detective Sergeant approaching him, obviously intending to intercept him for her superior. Mycroft stepped out of the car and straightened himself to his full height, intending to tell her to scurry off and find the Detective Inspector when the angle of his canopy shifted and he saw Lestrade approaching, wreathed in light, like some saint in an icon.

Mycroft's brain shut down. His face went slack and his thoughts descended into several moments of horrified, fascinated silence. He watched as the tired, beleaguered man coming toward him ran headlong into what appeared to be a very similar reaction. Both of them stood there, staring at each other, until Lestrade gathered himself with what seemed to be admirable ease and strode forward, offering Mycroft his hand, his handsome face opening into a broad grin. "I'm Greg Lestrade. I can't even begin to tell you how pleased I am to meet you."

Mycroft, on autopilot, reached out and took Lestrade's hand, still in shock that was edging into panic. "M-Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. And everything I was about to say to you is suddenly completely irrelevant." He swallowed around a strange lump in his throat and tried to catch his breath, entirely derailed by the glow around the man. This wasn't possible. He needed to retreat, to reevaluate. Nothing he had learned about Lestrade had prepared him for… this.

"I'm sorry. We… we should meet and talk when we are not at work. I… " Mycroft released Lestrade's -- Greg's hand slowly and reluctantly. He took a sharp breath and exhaled with deliberate control. "This was not on the evening's agenda."

Greg shook his head. "Yeah, no. I get it. It's a bit of a shocker." Greg's deep brown eyes never left his.

The sergeant, Donovan, looked at the two of them. "Boss? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Greg shook himself, seeming to come back to his center. "I… I think I need to leave this with you, Sal. I'm not going to have my head in the work tonight. This is… I need to sort this and I can't do it here. Sorry."

Mycroft pulled a card from his inner coat pocket and handed it to Greg. "I will be in contact with you tomorrow." He retreated swiftly, mind still spinning as he got into the car. He tapped the intercom button. "Home, now."

Andrea, his Personal Assistant, looked up at him from her phone in surprise. "Sir? What just happened? I've never seen you act like this."

"That man -- I…" Mycroft forced himself to calm and collected his wits. "It seems that I am soulbonded to the Detective Inspector. This isn't possible. What will this do to my security clearance? How will I be able to do my work with someone like _that_ so intimately connected to me?"

Andrea thought for a moment. "While this is obviously an extremely unusual situation, sir, it's not entirely unheard-of. There are precedents and procedures. I will look into it this evening and gather the necessary documents. Obviously, Lestrade's security clearance will need to be raised." She paused, flipping through information on her phone. "Such relationships are considered secure. There are no recorded instances of betrayals between soulbonded individuals. Your interests are now his, and his are now yours. He will guard them as you would guard your own."

Mycroft sighed. "I can only hope that he will regard my brother as one of my interests and guard him, as well."


	8. The Curious Case of the Holmes in the Nighttime

Greg found himself propping up the bar at his local, a pint in hand, anxious and a bit reluctant to go home. He shouldn't feel like that, he thought, slowly spinning the card Mycroft had given him between the thumb and fingers of his other hand. The only things on it were Mycroft's name and a phone number, in an elegant copperplate font.

Holmes. A pretty common last name, really, but with a name like Mycroft he was probably related to Sherlock, because Greg couldn't imagine two Holmes families would be that ridiculously cruel to their children. Both of them had embraced the unusual names, but Greg knew Sherlock was sharp as a razor and liked to stand out in a crowd. Mycroft really didn't strike him as a "Mike" type, not just some bloke down the pub. He was… too elegant, too refined to be a Mike. He wondered why Mycroft had showed up at the crime scene tonight, and what he'd intended to say that was now somehow irrelevant.

The voices in the pub and the telly on in the background hummed and rumbled around him, indistinct as he pondered. What was it about this that made him not want to share it with Karen? Why didn't he want to hurry home and share the amazing, wonderful news? Because it _was_ amazing, and it _was_ wonderful, and god knew he wanted to share it with someone. Someone, but not his wife.

What the hell was wrong with him? He sipped at his beer and sighed. He was torn between being fit to burst with joy and an unreasoning fear that his joy would be ripped from him somehow if he told her, sullied by anger or jealousy. He wanted her to be happy for him, wanted her to welcome Mycroft into their lives and to accept that he'd have a new friend now.

But she complained about his time as it was. About the irregular hours and the long days, about the shift work that he still did even as a DI. He did his best to make time for her, to be home when he said he would, but he knew what she really wanted was somebody with regular hours and all their weekends free. 

Somebody who wouldn't have to go running off in the middle of dinner.

Spending some of his time with someone else was going to be another thorn in her side, and he knew it. He'd loved her when they got together, been thrilled when they got married, and wanted more than anything to have a stable relationship and a happy life at home. But things had soured over the years, and he knew a lot of it was his fault. It wasn't that he leapt at overtime, but so often he hadn't any choice. It was take the shifts they offered, or find a new career. And he liked police work -- he enjoyed the puzzles of it, the mysteries. He liked putting the clues together. More than that, he wanted to believe he was bringing some justice into the world, arresting murderers and rapists and seeing them put away where they couldn't harm anyone else. Somebody needed to do it, and Greg was good at it, damn it. 

Greg ran his thumb over the raised ink of Mycroft's name on the card. Tomorrow. He said he'd be in contact tomorrow. Not that he'd asked for Greg's contact information, but he had the impression that somehow Mycroft already knew. The man had shown up at the crime scene specifically looking for him, after all. Somebody in that kind of a car under those circumstances? He was somebody official, though Greg wasn't going to hazard a guess at exactly what sort of 'official' that meant now that he'd got a couple of pints in him, and he sure as hell wasn't going to call Sherlock about it because there was a fair chance he'd get ignored, or possibly shouted at. Greg didn't want to be shouted at. He just wanted to be happy. It wasn't that much to ask, a little happiness, was it?

Tomorrow. He could hold onto his curiosity for that long.


	9. The Remains of a Forest

He got a call in the late morning from some woman, telling him to expect a car outside New Scotland Yard when he got off work. Greg was ready for it, he thought. He'd been right that Karen hadn't been thrilled by him meeting his soulmate last night, but he'd got the taste of that out of his mouth with an early morning call to his aunt and uncle, who were ecstatic and encouraging. It had taken some of the weight from his shoulders, and a bit of the sting from Karen's reaction.

Greg was antsy all day and still barely able to focus on anything. He put Donovan off as best he could, though he knew she was just asking after him because she was concerned. She'd probably be happy for him, but this was work, and he preferred keeping his work and his private life more or less separate. 

Finally, it was time to leave, and Greg found a nondescript black car like the one he'd seen last night waiting at the kerb near the main entrance. Parked illegally. He sighed. The door opened as he approached and a young, dark-haired woman stepped out and looked at him. 

"Detective Inspector."

He nodded to her. "Is he here?" His nerves were already getting the better of him.

"No, I'm to take you to him. Please get in." She gestured to the door. Greg got in.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Mr Holmes's PA. You may call me Andrea. You'll meet Mr Holmes at his club, the Diogenes, but it's imperative that once you enter the premises, you remain silent at all times until you are shown into the Strangers Room. You'll be able to speak there."

A club where you couldn't talk? Great place to get acquainted. "Why didn't Mycroft come himself?"

"Because he's still working. He will be free by the time you arrive, however. You are expected." She buried her nose in her phone and started typing, ignoring everything else Greg said. He sighed. This was not going anything like he'd imagined.

The Diogenes was an old Georgian building with white columns out front and footmen in livery inside. They wore little booties over their shoes to muffle their steps and Greg felt like a church mouse as he followed Andrea through the hallways. Greg recognized several MPs and other upper crust types in the chairs in one large room, all silent and reading books or newspapers. None of them looked at anyone else. Good god, now he was going to be the poor relation to his soulmate? He hoped their actual meeting was a little less stilted than the surroundings. Greg wasn't ashamed of his origins, and he had to deal with people of all sorts in his work, but he had to admit the situation had him a bit off balance.

Finally, Andrea opened an unmarked and unremarkable door off a side corridor and escorted him in. She closed the door behind them. "Mr Holmes, Detective Inspector Lestrade is here as you requested."

Mycroft sat behind a huge oak desk, and he looked up from a pile of paper he'd been sorting through. There was a soft glow around him, not the shocking beacon from last night. The frown on his face softened when he saw Greg and he stood, papers in hand, and moved to a small occasional table flanked by a couple of comfortable-looking leather wingback chairs.

"Gregory. Please. Have a seat. Would you care for a drink?" Mycroft set the stack of papers on the table and moved to the small bar cabinet against the wall. He seemed a bit ill at ease as well, which actually settled Greg a little. The man was obviously nervous about their connection and uncertain, and it brought out Greg's urge to be comforting.

"I'm sure whatever you're having will be fine," Greg said, seating himself and leaning back in the chair. Andrea stayed nearby, silent and hovering, like some dread angel at the gate. Mycroft poured two glasses of what looked like whisky and offered one to Greg before sitting as well.

"I apologize for the setting," Mycroft said. "Work can be all-consuming at times, as I'm sure you're aware." Greg nodded his understanding. "That said, before we can proceed, I'm afraid that I'll have to ask you to sign rather a good deal of paperwork." He pushed the stack a little closer to Greg on the table.

After a sip of the really very nice whisky, Greg picked up the papers and looked at them. His eyes widened. Flipping quickly through remains of a small forest, he noted that the Official Secrets Act paperwork was only one of the impressive number of documents he'd been given. He gave a low, soft whistle. "You're really not kidding about work being all-consuming."

Mycroft nodded. He pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and handed it to Greg. "I will understand if you are not interested in proceeding at this point. It's more than most people would tolerate for any sort of friendship." He sounded disappointed, and a little sad at the prospect.

"No, that's not what I meant. I just need to read it all over to be sure of what I'm agreeing to, that's all. I'd be mad to try to reject a soulbond. If we're bound, it's because we're supposed to be. We'll figure out how to make it work." He would. They would. Greg would make sure of it.

Mycroft shoulders relaxed slightly at that and Greg spent the next twenty minutes going over everything and asking occasional questions when he needed clarification. He'd been in enough courtrooms to understand the vast majority of it. It looked like Mycroft was so high up in the stratosphere of power that he probably needed an oxygen mask to breathe. Finally, Greg opened the pen and signed everything. The papers, once signed, were gathered and handed to Andrea, who put them into a folder and disappeared without a word.

Greg downed the dregs of his glass of whisky and looked at Mycroft, who was staring at Greg as though he were some strange puzzle. "I get the impression you already know a lot about me, so how about you tell me a little about yourself."


	10. Negotiation

The mountain of security paperwork that Mycroft had presented to Lestrade should have sent anyone sane fleeing for their lives. Greg had signed it. He had not only signed it, he had read every word, and asked clarifying, incisive questions about the items he did not entirely understand. That, alone, had greatly raised the man in Mycroft's estimation. It had offered him a glimmer of hope that could yet be dashed. 

He'd asked Mycroft to tell him about himself. Mycroft hardly knew where to begin. He'd had too many years of isolation and secrecy to be entirely trusting, even under these circumstances, so he decided to begin cautiously. He would offer every possible opportunity for escape.

"I'm sure, after signing so many security documents, that you must understand that my work is a matter of the gravest importance to national security."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I figured." His face was open but cautious.

"Even that fact is, in itself, to be regarded as confidential information. When asked about my employment, I generally tell people that I have a minor role in Her Majesty's government." Mycroft poured himself another two fingers of whisky. He would most likely need it. "To associate closely with me will put you at risk." Greg opened his mouth but Mycroft held up a finger to stop him. "While my day to day work does not generally put me in physical danger the way yours does, the nature of my employment has created enemies who would not hesitate to use those close to me for gain, or for blackmail. If you at any point decide that our bond makes you uncomfortable, or that you do not wish to place yourself and your family at further risk, it would be perfectly understandable for you to wish to distance yourself. You will be allowed to do so, and you would be granted protection should it become necessary."

Greg held out his glass, a silent request for another drink. Mycroft poured one for him. "Sounds like a really lonely existence."

"It is what it is. I came to terms with the requirements for my position decades ago. This, however --" Mycroft gestured between them, "this is novel. It leaves me in an awkward situation because I have no wish to endanger you."

"I appreciate that," Greg murmured, "but it's not going to scare me off."

Mycroft nodded, willing to accept that Lestrade believed that for the moment. "Last night, I intended to approach you to assess your suitability to continue to associate with my brother, Sherlock."

"Figured you were related, with names like that." There was no mockery in his voice or his body language. It was a simple statement of fact.

"Sherlock is an addict, as I'm sure you have noted. While he currently spends somewhat more time sober than high, he has a continuing problem."

"Yeah," Greg replied. "Two of the three times I've called him in, he's been off his tits. It's why I haven't brought him in more often, and why I only call him if it's absolutely desperate. It's not like I can't do my own work, but when things are well and truly stuck, he brings in a new perspective. My team and I still have to do the vast majority of the work to get a conviction and make it stick, but he gives us some direction."

Mycroft set his glass down and steepled his fingers before his face. "I had intended last night as a test -- to offer you a large sum of money to report to me on my brother's activities." Seeing the expression on Greg's face darken, he quickly continued, "I fully expected you to turn it down."

"Damned right, I'd have turned it down. Bribery's actually a crime, you know." Greg's irritation showed in his voice, his accent deepening with his distress.

"Of course," Mycroft acknowledged. "But taking a bribe would have meant you were not safe to associate with my brother. It would have been blatant evidence of corruptibility. At any rate, we had _this_ instead. A complete and utter derailment of the situation. Tradition and social custom dictate that I must now trust you with everything that I am, yet I am an extremely private individual in a sensitive position, and I shall have to beg your indulgence as I attempt to accustom myself to our conjoined fate."

Mycroft paused for breath and a sip of whisky. Greg said nothing, simply listening and considering, which continued to impress Mycroft. "As you might imagine, I am unused to companionship due to the risks of my position. I have few personal acquaintances, and no one that I can genuinely regard as a friend. I imagined that I would never miss something I have never had. And yet…" He trailed off, uncertain how to continue.

"And yet, here we are," Greg said. "You're showing willing to do something that obviously scares the crap out of you. You're covering well, I promise. I won't tell anyone that it worries you. I'll do my best to ease you into the whole having friends thing, if that's what you want."

"I… I believe that I do want." Mycroft didn't care to address how accurate Greg's assessment of his fear was. "However, I think it would be best if we did not initially mention the situation to Sherlock. Our relationship is a difficult one, for more reasons than I can go into right now. Should he become aware of the nature of our bond, he might cease contact with you entirely. At best, he would likely regard you as my puppet, or my proxy, both of which he would find exceedingly distasteful. I worry about him constantly. He is brilliant but self-destructive, and he resents what he considers my interference in his life when I simply want to be sure he's not dying in some doss house while my back is turned."

"That's got to be hard. I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"Look, since this whole thing isn't really your area, what do you think about getting together once a week or so for a coffee. Maybe half an hour or an hour to just spend time getting to know each other, no pressure. It might help ease your mind about me a bit, and about the whole concept of, you know, having a friend. Someone to talk to and share these things with." Greg's eyes were soft, sympathetic, and Mycroft found himself unable to refuse the offer. It seemed a small thing. "Doesn't have to be anything deep. Movies, books, your favorite chippy. Whatever."

"I understand that your schedule is, like mine, rather unpredictable. You also have the added complication of a wife at home who no doubt would prefer that you spent that time with her."

Greg flinched. "Yeah. Yeah, I do and she does. It's just an hour, though. Just a coffee. She's not… well, she wasn't too happy when I told her about this last night, but she'll get used to it. I hope she'll get used to it. I'm not going to lie to her and pretend this never happened. I can't. It's… it's too important to me. I _want_ this. I _want_ to get to know you, to spend time with you. Soulmates are meant to support each other, to be there for each other. We get to define what that means, you and me. Meeting you last night, it was one of the best things I've ever had happen to me. I'm no poet, I can't really put it in words, but I _feel_ it, here." Greg laid one hand over his heart. 

Mycroft felt it, too, but he couldn't even say that much.


	11. Probably Not a Tory

"Greg, look, I'm sorry about how I reacted last night," Karen said as they sat down to dinner together. "It was just kind of a shock is all. What's he like, this soulmate of yours? What's his name? Is he okay?'

Greg stared into his bowl of soup and tore off a bit of bread. He hoped she meant it. He looked up at her. "His name's Mycroft."

Her brow wrinkled at that. "Wow. That's a hell of a name. I feel sorry for the bloke."

"He's… he's posh. Really posh. Met me after work at his club. One of those old fashioned Victorian type gentleman's clubs you keep thinking are extinct, but they're not. There were MPs in there and all."

"What the hell does he do?" She stared, her spoonful of soup halfway to her mouth.

Greg knew he couldn't actually tell her _that_. "Bureaucrat. Some kind of middle management thing in the Department of Transport, he said." Mycroft had in fact offered that as his cover story and Greg would stick with that rather than betray the trust he'd been shown, or violate the documents he'd signed.

Karen's nose wrinkled. "He sounds… boring. He's not really boring, is he?"

"No. I didn't think so, anyway. That consulting detective I call in sometimes, Sherlock, he's Mycroft's younger brother. Both of 'em brilliant. Way smarter than me. I'm afraid I'll be the boring one, to be honest."

She looked interested now, so Greg continued. "He's tall. Bespoke suits. Obviously has more money than he knows what to do with. Seems cautious. If anything, he was more shocked by the whole soulmates thing than I was."

"Oh, god, do you think he's a _Tory_?"

Greg thought for a moment. "I think he's probably more conservative than me, but I doubt he'd consider himself one of that lot. Pretty sure he's gay and not in the closet. He's not flaming or anything, but he keeps himself better than most straight guys do."

Her eyes narrowed at that. "Are you okay with that? Should you be okay with that?"

"What, shouldn't I be? Nothing wrong with being gay, Karen."

"But he might…"

"Make a pass at me? Fucksake, he knows I'm married -- to a woman -- and he's way too formal to do something like that. He's not gonna offer me a blow in the gent's. Soulmates are meant to trust each other, and if he tried to get me to cheat on you, he'd not be trustworthy, would he?" Greg looked back down into his bowl and stuffed some bread in his mouth so he'd not say anything else that might get him in trouble. He didn't want to see her reaction to that. God, to think he might cheat on her. Soulmate or not, he could never do something like that, so against his own nature.

And if everyone was right and soulmates were supposed to be your perfect friend, your best match, it meant that it would be against Mycroft's nature as well. Sure, he was fit, but Greg was a married man and mostly straight, though he wasn't about to tell Karen at this point that it was only 'mostly.' She'd be sure to lose her mind at that.

"Okay, okay," she said. "You're right, there's nothing wrong with being gay. But you're a good looking man, Greg. Makes sense he'd see that, doesn't it?"

He looked up at her again. "Being gay doesn't mean he wants to bang anything with a dick any more than being straight means I want to sleep with every woman I see." Nor every man but, again, he was absolutely not going to open that can of worms. Not now. Not thinking Mycroft was gay. He probably should never have mentioned it.

"Do you think maybe I should meet him, too? Seeing as he's your soulmate? That you're going to be spending time with him?"

Oh, god, Greg had such mixed feelings about that, but he didn't want her to think he was hiding anything. "I'll ask him." That would put the ball in Mycroft's court and if Mycroft was hesitant about meeting her, it might make things easier, but Greg wouldn't have to take the blame for it. "He's pretty busy. From what I understand, he's out of town a fair bit for work. Meetings and conferences and all that. I mean, we're going to try to get together for coffee when we can, but he's said he can't promise anything regular-like."

"I just, I'd like to know if I can trust him around you."

"That's really unfair to him, don't you think? Being suspicious of him just because he's probably gay?"

"Well, I don't know him, do I?" Her face was creased into her disapproving frown again, and Greg hated that. He didn't like making her angry or jealous. Neither he nor Mycroft had done anything to warrant that kind of suspicion.

"I said I'll ask him and I will. Can we leave it at that and just have dinner? Please?"


	12. Matters of Scale

They'd met for several weeks in a row for coffee in different places in central London. Mycroft didn't have a habit of frequenting cafes, but Greg's company made the prospect considerably less odious. He always generously allowed Mycroft to sit with his back to a wall, at a table where the entire room could be surveyed, and it eased Mycroft's mind. He wasn't certain whether Greg was consciously placing himself between Mycroft and the rest of the world, but Mycroft experienced him as something of a shield, and appreciated that kindness.

Greg himself, however, always seemed slightly uneasy, as if there were something at the tip of his tongue that he was uncertain he should say. Mycroft knew that the problem, whatever it was, was not his own presence. Greg was always clearly delighted to see him and greeted him with a broad, bright grin that lit Mycroft's day without fail. Finally, he could no longer let the uneasiness between them stand.

"What's wrong, Greg?" Mycroft asked, during a pause in their discussion of noir detective films. "You've seemed very uneasy every time we've met for the last few weeks. I am under the impression you wish to say something but that you are, for some reason, reluctant. I don't believe that this is related to our connection, but it does seem personal. Are things not going well at home?"

Greg sighed and set down his cup. He scrubbed his face with one hand. "Yeah," he said. "It's… Karen wants to meet you. She asked the day after I signed all those papers, and she's been pushing for it ever since. I mean, she probably should meet you, but I can't help but thinking it's more to keep an eye on you than because she actually wants to get to know you. I…" He hesitated, took a deep breath, and started into it again. "She asked about you and at one point asked if I thought you were a Tory."

Mycroft snorted. As if.

"Yeah, I told her I didn't think so but then I said I thought you were probably gay and out, and she suddenly started talking like you were gonna offer to blow me in the gent's. I'm sorry. I mean, if you're not gay, I wouldn't want to imply anything. We're good, either way."

Mycroft shook his head, and chuckled. "Good lord, blow you in the gent's? Really, Gregory. If I were to court someone it would be with dinner and an excellent bottle of wine." No one in their right mind would wish to waste a man like Gregory Lestrade on a quick one-off in a public toilet. "You are in fact correct on all counts. I am not a Tory, I am gay and, while it is no one's business but my own, I have never hidden that fact. It does, however, seem that you have good reason to be hesitant about our meeting. As you say, it is likely that we should, but if it would make things more difficult for you at home for me to do so, I can refuse."

"Oh, god, I'm sorry. That sounds so crude, and you're not at all like that." Greg's face flushed with embarrassment.

"Please, I am not offended. Such things actually do happen, much as I find them distasteful. Your pointing out that I wouldn't participate in such activities simply shows your good judgment of my character."

Greg relaxed his tight shoulders slightly. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

"Is she aware that you are not, yourself, entirely straight? If so, it might explain a certain amount of her trepidation."

Greg's eyes shot wide open in shock. He swallowed, looking like a cornered animal. "I -- god, Mycroft, nobody knows about that. Karen doesn't know, she'd have a fit. How did you… you're… you've got that deduction thing, like Sherlock, don't you?"

Mycroft, realizing he'd made an error in revealing his deduction without preamble, reached out and gently covered Greg's hand with his own. "My apologies, Gregory. It isn't my place to reveal that information to anyone. I'm sorry that I spoke without thinking. I assure you, it changes nothing about our association. As for the deductive reasoning, it's rather more that Sherlock got it from me. We used to play deduction games together when we were children. It occasionally still happens."

Greg turned his hand under Mycroft's and twined their fingers together, squeezing for a moment before letting go. He took a deep, steadying breath and a large mouthful of coffee. "I've not done anything with another man since I was in my late teens. Even then, it wasn't much. I'm honestly mostly interested in women, but now and then a guy pings something in me and I can appreciate how attractive they are. But I'm married, and I don't mess around with other people. Never have. All I've ever really wanted from a relationship was a little happiness and stability at home. I'd never cheat on Karen."

"But things aren't as happy now as they were at the beginning." Mycroft felt a sharp stab of sympathy that ached as he examined it. "What would make this easier for you? Do you think it would be best for me to meet her, or would you rather I refuse, for form's sake, so that you'll be able to divert what might be a certain amount of ire from her at being unable to evaluate me in person? I have, after all, asked you to avoid mentioning our connection to my brother. It's not like I don't understand that family can be _complicated_."

Greg buried his face in both hands and tried to collect himself. "I think," he said, through his palms, "that it's probably best if you do, but I just want you to be prepared. It probably won't be the most comfortable meeting for any of us. I hate to subject you to that. It's not your burden to carry." He looked up at Mycroft, his brown eyes edged with pain. "I'm sorry that this is so bloody complicated."

Mycroft shook his head. Complicated didn't even begin to explain his own situation. "Please believe me when I tell you that there are things about me you still do not know that make this seem like nothing more than ripples on a pond. At some point, I will likely need to discuss them with you, but for now they are more or less safely filed away. These things are… extremely difficult for me to address, and to open that conversation at this point might put you at risk." The balance between letting Greg know about Euros and the potential for him to come to her attention was never far from Mycroft's mind. The very prospect of his sister finding out that Mycroft had a soulbond, and the identity of that individual, left him shaken. It would never do. Sherlocks temper tantrum would be completely insignificant in comparison.

Greg lowered his eyes. "Yeah, sorry. I keep forgetting you've got the entire bloody western world on your plate. My problems are nothing compared to that."

Mycroft took Greg's hand again and tugged gently, urging him to look up at him. "That is not at all what I am attempting to imply and I am deeply aggrieved that I might have given that impression. I have… there are… family issues that I've not spoken of, and which cannot be addressed here and now. It's not something that can be said in a public venue like this. Your problems and your situation are in no way unimportant to me, yet I cannot imagine that Karen will be as difficult for me to deal with as you are currently thinking. And if she makes things difficult for you at home, I hope that you know that you can come to me for aid, or simply for a sympathetic ear."

With an unsteady breath, Greg nodded. "Yeah, okay. Sorry. I just… sometimes it's hard for me to think that my stuff is important to anybody. That anyone actually cares. So thanks for clearing that up like you did. And really, you too, you know. If you ever need someone to talk to, ever need anything from me, all you ever have to do is call. If I'm not actually up to my knees in corpses, I'll come. I'll be there for you. I promise you that."

Mycroft nodded. "I believe you. Thank you. Should the occasion arise, I shall call upon you. You have my word."


	13. A Blatant Avoidance of Deductions

It was nearly a month before Greg finally arranged for Mycroft and Karen to meet. His reluctance hadn't subsided at all in that time, and her insistence became more and more intense the more he resisted, until she finally accused him of having something to hide. As if a friendship was something to be ashamed of. He only wanted to protect that seedling, to protect their budding soulbond. To protect Mycroft, though that made little sense, as Karen was no threat to him whatsoever.

There were moments when Greg wondered if it wasn't his own heart he was protecting, and if maybe he did have something to hide, though whether it was from Karen or from himself was an open question.

The three of them met over dinner, at a nondescript Italian restaurant closer to their place than to Mycroft's turf in central London. Public was safe, Greg thought. There was less chance of some kind of a scene, less chance of a fuss being kicked up. He didn't know what to expect after they met, though he suspected his night at home afterward would be strained. He hoped Karen would like, or at least accept Mycroft, but he also knew his hope was unrealistic. Mycroft was gay, and Karen was determined to see things that weren't there.

They arrived first, a few minutes early, and got their table. Greg was ordering a bottle of wine when Mycroft walked in, quickly scanning the room. His expression softened when their eyes met, though his face shuttered when he saw Karen. He strode over confidently and offered her a handshake. "Good evening, Mrs. Lestrade. I am Mycroft Holmes. It's a pleasure to meet you." Greg could see that the 'pleasure' was all surface, but he didn't blame Mycroft at all for hiding behind his formal business mask.

"Yeah, Karen. Pleasure." She shook his hand and looked Mycroft over. Mycroft returned the favor with that x-ray gaze of his that Greg knew some people found unnerving.

"Hey, Mycroft, have a seat. I'm glad you were able to find time for this." Greg's heart beat a little faster, both happy to see Mycroft and uneasy about his wife's reaction.

"I have been looking forward to meeting you, Karen. Greg speaks of you often. I'm sure you have questions for me." Mycroft settled in on the third side of the small square table to one side of Greg, across from Karen, leaving Greg sandwiched in the middle. The server arrived to offer them menus, and several minutes were spent discussing options before the wine arrived.

"The Sangiovese was a good choice, Gregory," Mycroft said, after he tasted his glass. "It will undoubtedly pair well with many of our options." 

Karen focused on the menu until the server arrived again to take their orders. Once that was dealt with, she folded her hands on the table and leaned a little toward Mycroft. "Greg says you work in transport or something."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes. I'm a minor official in the Ministry. Nothing noteworthy. Policy and that sort of thing. Hideously boring to most, but we do try to keep the traffic moving." He gave her a brief, tight smile. God, he could blend in with the bloody carpet sometimes, Greg thought. He really did look like a boring, officious bureaucrat with that expression on his face.

"Are you like your brother, that consulting detective bloke? Can you do that deducting thing?" She eyed him suspiciously. 

Mycroft responded with a raised eyebrow and a vaguely disapproving look. "We are somewhat similar in that regard," he said. "It's not something that I often care to discuss with others."

"Come on, Karen," Greg said. "He's not a performing poodle. We're at dinner."

"My brother and I do not get on very well much of the time. He is far less cognizant of the social graces and generally prefers to be the centre of attention. I, on the other hand, find myself more comfortable when there is rather less excitement." The way he said 'excitement' made it sound like a terrible thing to be avoided at all costs. Greg almost laughed because it seemed such a parody of the Mycroft he knew.

"Well," Karen said, "I'm just wondering what he sees in you, Greg, and what he can see about me."

Mycroft looked down his long, thin nose at her as their food arrived. "I do not generally exercise my skills without an express invitation. It tends to avoid a great deal of awkwardness and embarrassment, as anyone who is acquainted with Sherlock could easily inform you. As to what I see in Greg, he is a kind and generous man who has been an absolutely stellar example of friendship to me."

Greg felt himself blushing at that. "You've been well worth the time and effort, Mycroft. It's a joy spending time with you when we both have some available. I always learn interesting things from you and we have such great conversations. You're brilliant, but you never make me feel thick. You respect me, and what I do, and it's a good feeling."

"You are eminently worthy of respect, Gregory." His eyes flickered to Karen and then back to Greg. "It's a pity you don't receive more of it." Karen's eyes narrowed but she said nothing and took a bite of her lasagne.

Dinner continued in the same, stilted, slightly uncomfortable manner until about half an hour later, when Mycroft received a text. "I am sorry, but I must go. Bureaucracy, unfortunately, never sleeps. I hope I shall see you next week, Greg."

He rose, and Greg stood to shake his hand. He hated to see Mycroft leave, but he was glad the ordeal was finally over. Greg was just glad Karen hadn't outright accused Mycroft of wanting to sleep with him. She'd near as said it a few times at home already, and Greg had tried to reassure her that it wasn't going to happen.

Mycroft had hardly made it out the door before Karen started in on him. "God, Greg, that bloke has eyes like a snake. How can you like him? Is that really the kind of person who's your soulmate?"

"He was nervous, Karen," Greg said, stomping hard on the urge to snap at her in Mycroft's defense. "He closes up when he's uncomfortable." He'd seen it happen, and he knew Mycroft had been deeply uncomfortable over dinner. Completely in control, but unhappy, and Greg hated to see the man unhappy.

"But he's so _cold_ , Greg, and you're not. You are such a warm person most of the time." She draped herself over his shoulder as he got her coat for her. After she slipped her arms into the coat sleeves, she wrapped herself around Greg. "Give us a kiss, then. I want a little of your warmth tonight."

Greg did, with a chaste peck on the lips, but they were in public and he wasn't terribly comfortable himself. This felt a lot more like one of her jealous moments than it did any kind of genuine affection. Still, he'd take what he could get, as she'd been getting more distant in the past few weeks. Some nights he wasn't sure he was even entirely welcome at home. And then she'd turn and be like this; she ran hot and cold and Greg could only predict it sometimes. She'd probably be climbing him like a tree when they got in the door back at the flat. He sighed as he paid the bill. At least he'd probably get off, anyway. If he felt like he thought she genuinely meant it, he'd have more hope for fixing things between them.

He was still going to try. He'd make his vows.


	14. Boxes

Greg looked up from the blood spatter he'd been studying at the sound of the commotion from the edge of the scene. "Oh, bloody hell," he grumbled. Sherlock and Donovan were starting into an argument near one of the pandas, and Greg was not prepared for a shouting match on his patch right then. He got up from his crouch and headed for the two of them, thunder in his eyes.

They were still arguing when he arrived. "All right, what's all this, then? What are you doing here, Sherlock? I've not called you in on this one. I still don't understand that ridiculous numerical scale of yours but this can't even be a two."

"Bored! I am completely and utterly _bored_! Give me something interesting, give me a puzzle, anything!" 

Sherlock didn't actually look high, but he was definitely manic. Greg waved Donovan off. "Okay, back to work. I'll take it from here."

Dononvan glared at Sherlock but nodded. "Right, guv. He's all yours." She turned and headed back to the heart of the scene.

"Give me a case. I need something!" Sherlock was nearly quivering with suppressed energy.

"Sherlock, I don't _have_ anything. If I did, I'd have called you in. You know that."

Sherlock's focus shifted. "Oh, you don't have a case, but _you_ \-- something is going on with you. Something's changed, what is it?" He leaned a little closer to Greg, looking him over from his toes up to his hair. "Ohhhh, you've met my brother. Did he bribe you to report on me?"

"Jesus, Sherlock, the operative word in that sentence is 'bribe' and no, he did not fucking bribe me. That is a _crime_ , bribing an officer." He took Sherlock by the elbow and pulled him a little further from the tape that marked off the scene, away from potential prying ears. "And if you are going to accuse me of a crime, best not do it where people can actually hear you. I happen to like my job and want to keep it."

"Pity," Sherlock grumbled. "We could have split the money. I can always use some new lab equipment."

"Look, I'm working here. If you've got somewhere else to be, be there." Greg gestured off into the indefinite distance, hoping Sherlock would just leave. Admittedly, he didn't have a lot of hope, but he hoped anyway.

Sherlock shook his head. "My brother is the most dangerous man you will ever meet. He is the British government. And MI5 and 6, the CIA, and every other intelligence agency you can think of on a freelance basis. If you end up entangled with him, he will own you and you will dance to his tune like a puppet on a string" He looked Greg over again, with that penetrating gaze that you never felt you could escape from. "And, in your case, there are additional dangers. He's gay as a herd of rainbow unicorns and you, with your repressed bisexuality, would be impossible to resist."

Greg gave a strangled " _Sherlock_!" He struggled for breath, glancing back at the crime scene to make sure no one was close enough to overhear them. "Fucking hell, Sherlock, do _not_ say that! Do you have any idea how much trouble it would bring me if that got out? I am _married_. I made my choice. People like boxes and I do not fit in one and that? That is dangerous. People hate things they can't put in a box, and even though it's legal, it's not _accepted_ and I do not need that dumped on me so you can fuck right off if you're going to say shit like that where anyone can hear it. Do you understand me?"

"It's just the truth, Graham."

"It's _Greg_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Your wife obviously doesn't know, or your marriage would be over already. She's no good for you anyway."

"Sherlock," Greg growled, "if you ever want to work with me again, you will leave, right this instant, without saying another bloody _word_ about me or my marriage or your brother."

"Ugh, why are you so boring, Lestrade? I need a case! Give me a case!"

"I do not have a case and I am working! If you leave right now I will try to find you a cold case, all right? Will you _please_ just fuck off?" He really, deeply, desperately did not want to think about any of this, particularly not while he was at work.

"Two cold cases. Tonight."

"Get out!" Greg pointed forcefully away from the site. He turned and strode away, not looking to see if Sherlock left. "Oh god, he's going to be the death of me," he muttered.


	15. Blind Spots

It was after three in the morning when Mycroft finally closed the door of his flat behind him. Things were not in their usual order, and there was tobacco smoke in the air; he rolled his eyes. "Sherlock!" God, why? He was tired and just wanted to go to bed.

Sherlock emerged from Mycroft's library, half-smoked cigarette in hand. "Had enough interfering in global politics for the day? No wars on the horizon? You know how they interfere with traffic." He slouched in the doorway and leaned against the door jamb.

"Really, Sherlock. What is it tonight? I've had an extremely long and frustrating day and I do not need you to keep me from my bed." Mycroft hung his overcoat and umbrella before carrying his briefcase into his office to lock it in the safe overnight.

Sherlock dogged his heels. "My Detective Inspector. Keep your fat fingers off him. He's been willing to give me cases and if you interfere, that could change. Stay out of my life!"

Mycroft sighed. "He is not _your_ anything, brother mine. Lestrade is his own, regardless of your attachment. He will call you in to his cases or not, and I rather suspect that has more to do with your conduct than anything I might potentially say to him." Mycroft drifted toward his study. If his brother was going to keep him from sleeping, a glass of brandy would certainly not go amiss. It might dull some of the pain of the association. 

He poured himself a glass then held up the decanter toward Sherlock who shook his head and gestured it away. "Alcohol is your vice, not mine."

"Your vice," Mycroft snapped, "has left you in the gutter and I've always had to come and pick you out of it."

"I know what I'm doing," Sherlock protested. "You know it keeps my mind from destroying itself."

"At the cost of your body!" Mycroft took a rather too-large swallow of the brandy and glared at Sherlock. "And eventually it will destroy your brain, as well. Physically. You'll be nothing but a shell of yourself. Doesn't that bother you in the least? Do you _want_ to turn yourself into a vegetable?" The entire concept horrified him.

Sherlock extinguished his cigarette on one of Mycroft's antique tables, scorching the finish, and Mycroft cringed. He knew Sherlock did it to upset him but, like so much of humanity, what he could ignore from others was more painful from family. "That was unnecessary."

"So is your interference with Lestrade. Leave him alone. And do _not_ decide you're bored and drag him into your bed. He's a creature of sentiment and your complete lack of ability to care about anyone or anything will destroy him. That would render him useless to me." Sherlock threw himself into a chair and glared up at Mycroft.

Mycroft knew he'd have to negotiate this part of the conversation carefully so as not to reveal too much of himself. He took a breath and another sip of his brandy. "I have no interest in damaging Lestrade, or distressing him any more than absolutely necessary. I'm uncertain you can say the same. You've very little concern with distressing people or controlling how and where you reveal the results of your deductions. Inappropriate words at an awkward moment can wreak a great deal of havoc. They've been known to topple governments."

"Oh, that is absolutely your domain, Big Brother, not mine." Sherlock regarded him through narrowed eyes.

Mycroft sat and set his empty glass on the occasional table. "And how many people have you left in tears with your words? I'm astonished you haven't already managed to destroy him yourself. Have you rubbed his face in his failing marriage? Outed him at work?"

Sherlock stiffened for a moment. Apparently he'd done at least one of those things recently. Gregory had said nothing about the latter, so it must have been a comment about his wife. "He's made of tougher stuff than that," Sherlock muttered. "And he needs me. He needs my help on the more difficult cases as much as I need the stimulation of the Work." His tone took on the whine of self-justification.

"And so it might behoove you to treat him with slightly more respect. Regard him rather more as a partner and less as a useful tool."

Sherlock snorted. "Oh, that is rich, coming from you, to whom all of us are nothing more than gears and sprockets." 

"Are you done with your misplaced threats? Because I have an early morning meeting and I'd rather like to get at least two hours' sleep tonight."

Sherlock uncoiled like a panther. "Sleep, then, even though you don't actually need that much of it. We're not finished with this, though. I will be keeping an eye on you." He pointed one long, thin finger at Mycroft's face. "Do not interfere with my cases."

"Good night, Sherlock." Mycroft watched him go. He'd not caught that Mycroft's concern was more than technical, which was a relief. It was always interesting to watch Sherlock's blind spots in action. At least this one worked in his favor.


	16. Redbeard

Greg entered the Stranger's Room at the Diogenes after a long, weird day. Mycroft was sitting in one of the wing-back chairs they usually used, a pot of loose-leaf tea venting a waft of steam on the occasional table. He rose to greet Greg, already obviously evaluating his condition. They clasped hands, and Greg felt some of the odd weight of the day lift from his shoulders as they sat.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked, without preamble. He poured their tea as Greg sat.

Greg picked up the china cup and sipped, letting the warmth settle into him. He sighed and looked up at Mycroft.

"Sherlock actually brought _me_ a case today. That's never happened before. He's usually begging me for them. It was good that he did; it's an improvement for him, but there was something a bit -- I don't know -- off about him. I can't put my finger on it. He wasn't using though, that I could tell, so that wasn't the problem." Mycroft made a 'tell me' gesture with his hand, his fingers curling a bit, before he took up his own cup.

"Was at a puppy mill in some posh Hampstead Heath property. Not the sort of thing I'd have thought Sherlock would go in for, though there was a murder involved." He shrugged. "That's more his area, of course. Our lot hadn't had any report of a missing person."

Mycroft's brow wrinkled slightly at the mention of the puppy mill. "Do go on."

"Toward the end, he started talking about this dog he'd had as a lad. Redbeard, I think he said was its name."

The wrinkles on Mycroft's brow deepened. His eyes narrowed slightly. "And what did he say, exactly? If you're able to remember his precise words, it would be more helpful than you might realize."

Greg thought back over the oddness of Sherlock revealing anything personal about himself or his past, especially something that was so very human.

"I'm sorry, can't remember the exact words. I was a bit distracted by the body, as you'd imagine." Mycroft nodded his understanding but waited for Greg to continue. "Like usual, he was blaming you for everything. Claimed it was your fault the dog had died. That you'd not cared at all. Said the dog had been his only friend growing up. The way he talked about it, that pup might as well have been a brother."

Mycroft paled at that, and Greg saw a tremor in his hand as he carefully set the teacup down. "Oh, dear," he whispered.

"Mycroft? You okay?

Mycroft took a deep breath and shook his head. He wouldn't meet Greg's eyes. "No. I am not." His voice trembled slightly.

Confused and concerned, Greg reached out across the table and took his hand. "What did I say? What's wrong?"

When Mycroft looked up, the expression on his face was unlike any Greg had seen on him before. He'd seen Mycroft concerned, angry, upset, amused, and sarcastic, among other things. He'd never seen Mycroft looking genuinely shaken. There was an edge of terror in his eyes that had Greg worried.

"Mycroft? Talk to me. Please."

The man took a breath and steeled himself, a sheet of ice coming down over his face in a transformation so sharp that it cut. "What I am about to tell you must never leave this room," he said, his voice cold and stable. "I must invoke the Official Secrets Act regarding this information." Greg stiffened, then squeezed Mycroft's hand. God, this had to be bad.

"Okay, right. Go on, then."

Mycroft took a moment to collect himself before continuing. "You must never speak to Sherlock about this information. His memory is… incomplete, and deliberately so. It is for his safety, and the cause currently involves national security. There are ongoing issues surrounding the situation."

"Jesus, Mycroft," Greg whispered. "Are you sure you should tell me?"

He nodded gravely at Greg. "It would appear that I may require your assistance in monitoring the situation. Your knowledge, regardless of the risks, has become imperative. It was never my intention to endanger you."

"Wait, what? Endanger?" Greg didn't let go of Mycroft's hand, nor did Mycroft pull away. Instead, Mycroft's fingers tightened around Greg's.

"There are many reasons why I was required to have you sign all those documents when we met. You have never asked about those reasons, and I am deeply grateful for your acceptance of the situation. Unfortunately, Sherlock's words have suddenly granted you Need to Know status. Were it my choice, I would have kept this knowledge from you."

Greg's blood ran cold, but he nodded. "Whatever it is, Mycroft, I'm here for you. You can count on me; I have your back."

Mycroft closed his eyes and his face crumpled for a moment, overwhelmed, but he recovered in a flash. "Thank you."

Solid again, Mycroft continued. "Sherlock never had a dog." Greg's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. There was obviously a lot more to this than Sherlock not having a dog. "Father is dreadfully allergic to canines. Redbeard was Sherlock's childhood friend, Victor Trevor. He disappeared under suspicious circumstances when my brother was approximately seven years old."

"Oh, god." Greg held his breath, waiting for more. This ran deep and treacherous.

Mycroft hesitated and Greg squeezed his hand, both for reassurance and to urge him to continue. "I… we… have a sister."

"A sister?"

Mycroft nodded, growing paler as he spoke. "Euros. Named for the Greek god of the east wind."

"Your parents and their name choices," Greg muttered.

"Indeed. She is a year younger than Sherlock."

"Neither of you have ever mentioned her before."

"Sherlock's never mentioned her because he doesn't remember her. He's blotted her out. I have not said anything for national security reasons. She is…" He stopped and swallowed harshly before continuing. "She is a psychopath, criminally insane. I have every reason to believe that she murdered Victor out of jealousy for his close friendship with Sherlock."

"Holy Christ." God, that kind of trauma would explain so much about both of them.

"We begged and pleaded with her to tell us where he was, what had happened to him, but she would say nothing. She would sing… a strange song that we could never interpret. To this day no one knows what became of Victor. It is assumed that he is dead.

"You must understand that Euros's genius makes mine look like a flickering candle under the light of the noonday sun. She is a once in a generation intellect who could have changed the world with her insight as an adult." Mycroft looked like every word was being extracted from him with torture devices.

"What happened to her?"

"After Victor's disappearance, she began to draw pictures of Sherlock. Of his gravestone. Of my brother dying under any number of ghastly circumstances. Eventually, our parents took her to a child psychologist, who told them she was simply acting out her anxiety regarding the disappearance of Sherlock's friend, her worry that Sherlock might die.

"I feared that this was not the case."

Greg leaned in, holding Mycroft's cold hand tighter. "How old were you?"

"Fourteen." Greg could feel his heart breaking for the child this man had been. "She would cut herself open, wanting to see how muscles and nerves worked. She did not understand that the sensation she felt was pain." Greg shuddered as he listened. "She repeatedly experimented on us, even at that age, attempting to discover our deepest fears. She knew that I was afraid of heights. A few weeks after Victor's disappearance, she set our house ablaze. I was trapped in my room on the second floor. After my escape through the window, she asked me if I was still afraid of heights."

Greg was shaking now. He got up and went to Mycroft, tugging him to his feet. He took him into his arms and held him as he spoke. Mycroft stiffened at first but gradually eased into the embrace and put his arms around Greg as well, clinging as he trembled, his fingers clenched tightly into the fabric of Greg's shirt.

"Our uncle Rudy oversaw her transfer to a facility for children with severe mental illnesses. Within a few weeks, she had murdered several people and burned the place to the ground. She was then removed to a secure facility, where she remains to this day. My parents were told that she died in the fire. Uncle Rudy felt it would be the… the kindest thing, because there was no hope of her ever recovering. I concurred. He felt that my involvement in the concealment of this information would lend it veracity." Mycroft's voice was soft and tentative in Greg's shoulder and Greg couldn't help weeping for his friend. "I see her occasionally. She has proved useful in pinpointing terrorist threats from the thinnest of clues; things that I would miss even though it is my profession. 

"But Sherlock must _never_ know. He cannot know, or it would shatter him. You know how fragile he is beneath his bravado, how self-destructive he is. This is -- it's the only way to protect him from himself. If that memory loss is fading, if the memories are returning, his life may be in danger. And Euros…" Mycroft drew a shuddering breath. "The facility is the most secure in the nation. Its very existence is merely a rumor to anyone without an absolute need to know. Yet every day I fear that she may find a way to access the outside world. To endanger Sherlock. To threaten the nation's security."

He drew back from Greg, taking his shoulders in his hands, and looked into Greg's eyes with dread. "To threaten you, because of your association with me."

Greg pulled him close again and held him until they both stopped trembling.


	17. Stradivarius

Mycroft held the violin case tucked carefully under his arm as he strode down the hallway. Everything about both the antique instrument and the case itself had been examined minutely for anything that might be in some way unusual or out of place. His umbrella tapped on the tiles as he walked.

The security codes input, Mycroft entered the isolation room outside of her cell. Euros looked up at him, her strange, all-seeing eyes fixed on his, and Mycroft erased himself in her presence, attempting to cease existing so that there would be nothing she could read.

She blinked, sighed, and shook her head. "Your attempts to be invisible are just as informative as your words," she said.

Mycroft refused to react. His face was blank as he placed the violin case in the pass-through to her cell. "For your prior cooperation. Happy birthday."

Euros took the case from the pass-through and opened it. "A Stradivarius. You've gone all out this time."

"Your assistance was invaluable. Consider this a small token of our appreciation."

She chuckled coldly. "Nothing 'our' here, Mikey. This is all you. Trying to make up for your mistreatment of me and your inability to keep Sherlock from trying to keep me erased by imploding. You know his penchant for drugs will kill him eventually." Mycroft stilled, crushing his reaction to the jab and hoping she'd not seen it.

She took the violin from the case and braced it on her shoulder, tucking her chin down on it. With her other hand, she removed the bow, knowing that Mycroft would have already made sure the instrument was in tune and the bow rosined properly. She tried a note, made a small sound of approval, and launched into Paganini's _Caprice no. 4 in C Minor_. It was a notoriously difficult piece that his sister executed flawlessly.

He clapped, a casual, uncommitted applause intended to show nothing. "Brava," he said. "A superlative performance." She could have been a world-renowned musician; her talent was even greater than Sherlock's. Mycroft viciously crushed his own regret that he was not musically talented as well. His own talent lay more with charcoal and pastels, but he had no time to pursue such frivolities. At least he could appreciate good music.

"What do you have for me today?" she asked, the violin still perched under her chin.

"Nothing," Mycroft responded. "It's your birthday. I've brought you a gift."

"You could have brought me Sherlock." Her cold eyes narrowed, and Mycroft pulled himself out of them with force.

"I'm afraid that will not happen," he snapped. The very idea of the two of them meeting again left him in a cold sweat. He turned sharply and left. There was nothing to be gained by further interaction and he would only be goaded into vividly telling reactions were he to remain.


	18. The Choices We Make

The shrill sound of Greg's phone rang in the dark and he reached over, groping for it with half opened eyes. He wasn't on call and nobody in their right mind would call him at whatever the fuck time this was unless it was an emergency.

"Mmm. Uh, Lestrade." He glanced at the clock by the bed. 2:30 in the morning.

"Who is it?" Karen groaned.

"Gregory -- I-I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour but--" Mycroft's voice sounded stressed, and it cracked as he paused.

"What happened? What's wrong?" Greg's heart sped. "Is it Sherlock?"

"He's overdosed. It's bad." God, Mycroft sounded a wreck.

Greg was already dragging himself out of bed over Karen's sleepy objections. "Where are you?"

Mycroft's voice shook when he answered. "Charing Cross A&E. I-I thought you should know."

"Look, I'll be right there," he said, groping for his jeans with one hand. "I'll be out the door in two minutes."

"Greg!" Karen snapped. He looked over his shoulder at her as she turned on the bedside lamp. She rubbed her eyes. "I'm sure he's got family he can call. You don't need to go."

In Greg's other ear, Mycroft said, "There's no need, I didn't mean to drag you out of bed."

"You called. If it wasn't bad enough to scare you, you'd have left it til morning," Greg responded, pulling his jeans on. "I'm awake now. Get yourself a coffee and I'll be there soon."

The relief in Mycroft's voice was almost a physical sensation for Greg. "Thank you." The line disconnected and Greg dropped his phone on the chair beside the bed and finished dressing. 

"He's got people for this, Greg," Karen said. "Why are you going to him?"

Greg glared at her as his head emerged from the t-shirt he'd just pulled on. "Because he's my friend. He's my _soulmate_ and he needs me."

"But I'm your _wife_ and I need you!"

"And if you were in hospital, I'd be right there, wouldn't I? If he had anyone else to call, he'd've done it. He wouldn't have called _me_." Greg dropped back onto the bed to pull on a pair of socks and trainers. Pausing only to grab his phone, wallet, jacket, and keys, he ran for the door.

"You have to stop doing this!" Karen shouted, her voice trailing him as he shut the door behind him.

Stop doing what? Stop caring about his friend? Stop responding if his bloody soulmate needed him? Mycroft had _never_ called him sounding like that before. There had been other ODs but Mycroft had always called in the light of day, during more or less respectable hours. He wasn't the type to sound broken like that for no reason. Thankfully, traffic in the middle of the night was minimal and Greg got to Charing Cross in good time.

Greg found Mycroft sitting in a small, quiet waiting area, his face in his hands, shoulders shaking slightly; Greg realized he was crying. "Mycroft," he said, his voice quiet and gentle. He reached out and rested a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft tensed and wiped his eyes, looking up at Greg.

"You didn't have to come," he said, exhausted and subdued.

Greg sat next to him and put an arm around his slender shoulders. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I did. You needed me. Here I am."

Mycroft leaned into him, unselfconsciously seeking comfort, and Greg held him. "I'm sure your wife is displeased," Mycroft murmured.

With a sigh, Greg said, "Yeah, she is, but she'll get over it. What's your daft brother got himself into this time?"

"The Intensive Care Unit," Mycroft grumbled.

"That bit I'd guessed."

"My apologies, I'm not angry at you."

Greg tightened his arm around Mycroft. "I know. It's okay. It's normal to be angry and upset about this kind of thing. What's the prognosis?"

Mycroft shook his head. "The doctors won't know for another several hours. He's not currently breathing on his own."

"Do they know what he took?"

"He… he always leaves me a list," Mycroft said, pulling a crumpled scrap of paper from his pocket and proffering it to Greg.

Greg took it, opening it enough to look at the thready, unsteady lettering on the paper. "Good Christ, was he trying to kill himself?"

"Not consciously, I'm sure."

Greg looked around at the uncomfortable, sterile space. "Where's your shadow?"

"Dealing with my employers. I'll be useless tomorrow. Today." Mycroft shuddered. "Why does he not care about anything? Why does he try so hard to drive himself to the brink of extinction? The fact that I have to drop my entire life to come to his aid means nothing to him! I have to conceal this from our parents! Mummy would be devastated and then furious by turns, and I am always the one who has to clean up after Sherlock's disastrous decisions." Greg could feel the fury that Mycroft was struggling to keep in check.

"Mycroft, I know it's not my place, and I don't know your parents at all, but maybe keeping Sherlock's secrets for him isn't doing him -- or you -- any favours. I've seen this wreck you before. None of this is your fault. Yes, he's your brother, but he's their son. Sometimes I think they need to take a little responsibility for what's happening as well." Responsibility for not protecting Mycroft and Sherlock when they were kids. Responsibility for making Mycroft have to parent his younger brother when he was so young and traumatized himself. Greg didn't think he'd like Mycroft's family much.

"No," Mycroft said, his voice cold and still angry, "it isn't your place."

"I'm worried about you."

"Worry about Sherlock, he's the one not breathing on his own."

Greg turned a little more toward Mycroft and wrapped his unresisting friend in both arms, holding him close. "Sometimes, I think, neither are you."


	19. His Shield and His Sword

It had been months, and Mycroft couldn't get that conversation out of his mind. He and Greg had spoken for hours that night, and the man's reassurances had held Mycroft together in a moment when he'd been vulnerable and shattering, his brother possibly dying -- again -- in a hospital bed.

Mycroft had been angry at first about Greg's words. About Greg's criticism of his family, of Mycroft's attempts to take responsibility for Sherlock, for the traumas of their childhood. Yet, as they talked, Mycroft could see a certain amount of sense in Greg's viewpoint. 

He had needed time to consider everything and had pushed a great deal of it away, not wanting to accept the implications. He and Greg had avoided the topic in their subsequent meetings, though Mycroft could see he wanted to continue the conversation. Mycroft tried to fall into the rhythm of his feet on the treadmill, the sweat rolling down his body, the harshness of his breath as he drove himself on.

His breath, and the metaphor Greg had landed upon, that Mycroft was suffocating on his own.

He wanted to push it away again, but he couldn't. There was something sharp and bright about the concept, like the blade of a scalpel. "Would you blame any other child for those circumstances?" Greg had asked.

Mycroft hadn't answered. He couldn't. To say 'no' would be to absolve himself of his sins, to relieve himself of so many heavy burdens and responsibilities, and he could not see how that was possible. To say 'yes', though -- that would be cruel and unreasonable. He didn't deserve forgiveness. He didn't deserve kindness. He wasn't like other children of that age; he'd been smarter, he could see the patterns inherent in situations, could anticipate things that even most adults would never understand or predict. He should have known, should have sheltered, should have prevented.

Greg's faith in him cut through all of Mycroft's armour. It pierced him, reaching something tender and terrifying at the same time. Where, in the cafes of their conversations, Greg had been his shield, here in Mycroft's time of need, he'd been his sword, penetrating all of his self-protective illusions. Stated or not, Greg wanted Mycroft to consider himself with the same concern he gave to his brother, to his parents. Mycroft had always given even his desperately damaged sister more consideration than he'd given himself. And that -- it cut him to the bone. Because Greg was right.

But to shed any layer of his armour would leave him open to terrors he'd tried to blot out. He'd given himself the illusion of safety in solitude. Mycroft had never been safe. The only hint of it he'd ever had in his life was found in those moments with Greg.

With his soulmate.

It wasn't simply a 'bond', though he'd always preferred that word when he thought of their relationship. It distanced him even as it held them together. Soulmate. A friendship deeper and stronger than Mycroft had ever envisioned. He'd come to a point where he felt unable to exist without Greg in his life, without the man's steady, supportive companionship.

It had not destroyed him. Even through the fragility that he struggled with as he ran, he knew it had somehow made him stronger. Greg's presence was clarifying his sight. If he were a poetic, or a religious man, he might say that his warmth was wakening seeds in Mycroft's soul. But he was not. Mycroft was a pragmatist, not an artist.

He didn't understand what he'd done to deserve a man like Gregory Lestrade in his life. There was no logic to it, no _reason_. Yet, there he was, all the same. Calm and steadying, warm and -- dare he say it -- loving.

Platonic.

And that fact made Mycroft wish he had no heart at all, for what little heart he had was breaking.


	20. Florida Man

"Is Sherlock all right?" Greg asked as he closed the door of the Stranger's Room behind him. 

"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?" Mycroft poured their tea.

Greg took his cup then leaned back in his chair, relaxing a bit at hearing Sherlock was all right. "Haven't seen him in a couple of months. Usually he'd be all over me by now. Not that I didn't think you'd tell me if there was a problem, but it's unusual for him to be out of contact for that long. I've been trying to keep a better eye on him the last year or so, since that time he was in hospital. I tried calling him a couple of times a week, but nothing."

Mycroft nodded. "Ah, yes. He's in Florida."

Greg's face pinched in surprise. "What, he's on holiday? He'd never go on holiday."

"Of course not," Mycroft said with a chuckle. "He's got a case."

"Yeah, I guess that's the only thing that'd make sense, isn't it?"

Mycroft nodded. "As you say."

"You okay with him being so far away? I mean is he in contact with you and all?" He thought Mycroft sounded reasonably at ease with Sherlock's absence, which hadn't always been the case.

Mycroft took a deep breath, and a sip of his tea. "I am… attempting to give him a little breathing room, as you suggested. I'll admit, it's been difficult sometimes, not knowing exactly where he is or what he's doing. Given his history, I have been reluctant to distance myself."

"I know," Greg said, reaching out and grasping Mycroft's free hand. He squeezed and let go. "It's good for both of you to at least try, though. How's he been responding to that?"

"I'm uncertain whether he's noticed. He's texted me three times for money, but the case isn't over yet. He expects to be well paid when he's finished."

"What's he up to then? I mean, Florida. Got a bit of a reputation for weird stuff." Greg had seen the 'Florida Man' headlines coming out of that place on his computer and some of them left him absolutely at a loss for explanations.

Mycroft shook his head. "Ah, no. He was called in to deal with a drug kingpin who is currently on death row."

Greg's eyes widened? "What? He's out there trying to prove this bloke innocent?"

"Not in the least. The man's wife has called upon Sherlock to ensure he gets the death penalty. He's apparently exceedingly vicious and she fears for her life. Once the verdict is handed down, she intends to return to London, where she feels she will be safer."

He shifted uneasily at that. "You're not worried that he's going to be around a bunch of cartel types? God knows what kind of trouble he could get into."

"I'm well aware," Mycroft said. "I can't say as it fills me with joy. If he doesn't end up in a rehabilitation program by the time we get him back, perhaps there's hope for him after all."

"That's…" Greg grappled with his mixed feelings. He was worried for Sherlock, knowing the things he did when he was bored, but actually really proud of Mycroft for finally starting to loosen his grip. Greg might not have chosen to do it for a case like this, but Mycroft had to start somewhere. "Well done, you, for trying to trust him and let him make his own decisions."

"It still worries me, Sherlock not being in London where I can get to him easily if he gets in trouble." Mycroft stared down into his tea as he spoke.

"Or where he can't get to you easily if he realizes he needs your help," Greg added.

"Indeed. Or that." He looked up at Greg. "Knowing that you are here has offered me some amount of solace. You've been a great comfort to me."

Greg smiled at Mycroft's quiet words, warmth settling into his chest. "You have been for me, too," he said. "Karen's been…" He stopped and took a breath, held it for a moment, and let it out. "Things aren't getting any better, no matter what I try. It's hard."

There was a deep sadness in Mycroft's eyes as he responded. "I'm very sorry, Gregory. I know how much you want to preserve your marriage, and how much it means to you."

"Sometimes I wonder why I bother," Greg murmured, hating himself for thinking it. "I feel like she doesn't care anymore. Like… like she blames me for finding you. But she doesn't seem to want to let me go, either. She gets jealous, and things are okay for a few days, then it spirals back into arguments and she heads off to see her sister for a couple of days." He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. "Sometimes I just wish she'd make up her mind."

He could hear Mycroft move, and felt his presence near him, then Mycroft laid one gentle hand on his shoulder. "You know that I'm here for you, Gregory. If there is anything I can do, you need only say the word."

He knew it was true. Mycroft was the sort who'd move mountains for the people he cared about, and Greg knew beyond doubt that he was one of them. He wished he knew what he wanted, what he could do.

He just wanted the pain to stop.


	21. Shelter from the Storm

Mycroft's library door banged open as Sherlock stormed in shouting, "When did this happen?! When?" His eyes were wild, but un-drugged, the Belstaff coat Mycroft had given him for Christmas swirling dramatically. Mycroft leaned back in his chair and set his book down.

"It would help if I knew precisely which 'this' you're referencing, brother mine."

Sherlock's arms flailed. "This! This thing with Lestrade! How are you his _soulmate_?" he spat, obviously deeply offended by the mere concept. "How long have you hidden this from me? How were you even _able_ to hide it from me?"

Mycroft's eyes rolled. This was not going to be a comfortable conversation. Then again, few of his conversations with Sherlock were. "You saw, Sherlock, you simply did not observe. While neither of us went out of our way to mention it to you, the signs were there all along." He steepled his fingers in front of him, an unconscious barrier against his brother's frenetic presence.

"How long?" Sherlock demanded, his words short and sharp.

"Almost three years," Mycroft said.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "WHAT?? 'Almost!' As if you don't know down to the minute when this travesty occurred."

"Two years, eleven months, and four days," Mycroft murmured, turning his attention to fiddling with his book rather than looking at his brother.

Sherlock paced the room, bouncing from one side to the other like some demented pingpong ball, arms waving wildly. "And when did you intend to inform me about this drastic change in your status? In _his_ status?"

"I assumed you'd figure it out for yourself eventually. It obviously hasn't affected your working relationship in the least."

Sherlock stopped in front of Mycroft and glared down at him. He leaned in, his hands on the arms of Mycroft's chair and Mycroft found himself nose to nose with his brother's anger. At least this time he didn't seem on the verge of violence. "You and your _secrets_. You never tell anyone anything, even if it's necessary."

"In what way was this necessary information for you?" Mycroft asked, not backing down. "How has it harmed you, not knowing that I had a soulmate, and that Lestrade was that individual? Has it prevented you from working together? Has it damaged anything other than your vaunted ego because you didn't see it immediately after it began?"

"You don't trust me with _anything_!" Sherlock roared, standing again.

Mycroft sighed. "On the contrary; I frequently attempt to bring you work that is highly classified and requires the utmost discretion. It isn't my fault that you refuse to cooperate."

"This is personal," Sherlock snarled. "I assume you've not told him about his wife cheating on him, either. Which has, I should note, been going on since before you bonded with him."

"You've said nothing either," Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not relevant to my work with him. But it would certainly seem that his marital troubles would be relevant to his relationship with you. Is it that you think he's unattracted to your bloated corpus? Or is it merely the fact that you _do not care_ about anyone or anything other than yourself? _Caring is not an advantage_ \-- isn't that your motto in life?"

"That was Uncle Rudy's motto, Sherlock. I have been making an effort to abandon that stance as it has felt less and less accurate as time has passed. I have not told him _because_ I care about him. That knowledge would cause him a great deal of pain. He currently wishes to remain married to… that _woman_." Mycroft couldn't help feeling a certain amount of resentment where Karen was concerned. Greg seemed close to a breakthrough on the situation, but he had to get there on his own. Anything else would be resented.

"He should know. I would want to know," Sherlock insisted.

"Even being aware that he would be greatly hurt by the knowledge, and that his trust in me might be shattered? That he might suspect me of interfering in his marriage to my own advantage?"

"It concerns him directly, he should be told," Sherlock argued. "You hide things from everyone."

"For their own good," Mycroft said. "There are truths that are too painful, and their concealment is a kindness."

"You're never _kind_ ," Sherlock spat. "You are a heartless, blubbery waste of flesh, manipulating everyone around you to make your own life easier."

It didn't seem to matter how many years passed, Sherlock's insults remained painful, but Mycroft could do nothing other than harden himself and let them pass over him. He struggled to keep his voice even. "Had I no heart, I should certainly have no soulmate, don't you think?" He drew a slow, steadying breath. "And as you've neglected to mention his wife's infidelity in all this time, I would ask you to maintain that practice. He isn't ready to see it yet. When the time comes, I will be there and I will support him in whatever decision he makes -- just as I have attempted to support you."

Sherlock threw himself into a chair. "Support," he muttered. 

"You might recall my complete lack of interference and surveillance when you were in Florida and directly in the path of temptation. The only times we communicated were by your choice, and my only actions were taken at your request. Would that not indicate an attempt on my part to trust you and to offer you support? How is Mrs. Hudson, by the way? I understand she's recently purchased a building on Baker Street."

Mycroft's words were brushed away with a wave of Sherlock's hand. "Don't change the subject. My point on all of this stands. He deserves the truth. I know you hide things from me all the time; you hide things from our parents. Personal things. Things I need to be aware of. You should tell me."

The very thought of revealing some of the things Mycroft knew chilled him. He locked eyes with his brother, trying to assess how much Sherlock might be remembering. "Regardless of the consequences? Regardless of the pain or the actual damage they might cause? The paths we walk are dangerous, Sherlock. A hard east wind blows, and there may be no shelter from the storm."

He saw Sherlock's minute twitch but no sign of understanding or recognition in his brother's eyes. The memories were still buried, then, but they were moving beneath the surface. Mycroft wondered what to do. Sherlock barked a sharp laugh.

"Shelter. Perhaps it hadn't occurred to you, but humans have been building shelters for themselves from the dawn of humanity. You've built a fine one for yourself, using Lestrade as a convenient shield from your responsibilities. I imagine I'd be more than capable of coping with whatever is hiding deep in your primordial ooze. _Tell him_ , Mycroft. Tell me."

The metaphor left Mycroft uneasy. Sherlock had blocked all memory of Victor and Euros as a shelter, but perhaps it was time to consider helping him build a new one, one that would guard him from the storm without attempting to deny its very existence.


	22. Fracture

"Greggy, could you take the rubbish out before you come to bed?"

Greg groaned silently to himself. Karen was in one of her on-again phases and was trying to be sweet to him. 'Greggy' hadn't bothered him much when he was young, but he didn't really care for it these days. God, his commitment to this crumbling farce was getting harder by the day. "Yeah, 'course," he called, levering himself up from the sofa. Kitchen recycling, then the loo. Bloody hell, it was so many bags of crap these days. Yeah, he understood why, and he genuinely approved, but it had been so much easier when it was all one bag, and one bin to worry about.

He pulled the bags from the kitchen bins under the counter and set them by the door to the flat then went for the small bin in the loo. He lifted the lid on the thing and stood there staring in shock at the… item… sitting half buried on top of the other refuse. Pulling off a square of bog roll, he picked it up, hardly believing what he saw.

It hung there, limp and wobbly between his thumb and forefinger; Greg was torn between heartbreak and rage. "Karen!" he shouted.

"What?" she called, from the bedroom.

He stomped down the hall into their bedroom, anger washing over him. "What the fuck is _this_?" He brandished the used condom at her.

"Is what?" she asked, then she looked up from her book. Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, ugh, what is that disgusting thing?"

"It's a fucking _used condom_ is what it is, and we have never used the bloody things in all the years we've been together. Who the hell are you fucking behind my back?"

" _Me_?" she gasped, feigning affront. "You mean you just haven't wanted to admit you've been wanking to the thought of your soulmate when I'm not around. I knew he'd turn you gay sooner or later."

"You do not get to accuse me of anything when I'm holding the evidence of your fucking around right here in my hand!" His head was spinning and he wanted to scream, wanted to break things. He wanted to cry, for fuck's sake. How dare she? He had tried so hard.

"Oh, that's yours all right," she insisted. "You've not been able to get it up with me for most of a year, and that has to be why."

Greg snorted. "Yeah, and I can take this in for a DNA check if you want and we can stand in front of a divorce court and demonstrate that you are _fucking around on me_! How long has this been going on?"

Her eyes widened at the threat of a DNA test, and the mention of a divorce court sent her into a panic. "What? Divorce? You can't be serious!"

"The same way you shagging some other bloke isn't serious?" Heartbreak was starting to overtake anger and he had no idea what to do next.

"It's - you've just not been here for me since you got your soulmate, Greg! You've walked out on me in the middle of the night for him!"

Greg's hand clenched into a fist. "That was _once_ and his brother was nearly dead in a hospital. Of course I went to him! He needed me! This is all bullshit! I just -- god damn it, Karen, I have tried so fucking hard to make you happy. I've put most of my life into getting this flat, buying you a car, being supportive when you've had bad times, and _this_ is what you do to me? If you didn't want me, why the hell didn't you just tell me you wanted out? Why did you have to humiliate me like this? You couldn't just say 'I'm sorry, Greg, this isn't working'?"

She was crying now, and Greg didn't even feel guilty. Hell, he was crying now, too. "But it _was_ working! We have this nice place in the city that neither of us could afford alone. We've got friends. People like you, and they always liked me better when you were with me!" He could hear the accusation in her voice, but he didn't understand her reasoning.

Disgusted, Greg dropped the condom on the bedroom floor. He stomped to the closet and pulled out a gym bag, stuffing a couple of days' worth of clothes into it, not caring that he was wrinkling things. Karen leaped out of the bed and tried to pry it from his hands, to stop him from leaving, but he was beyond hearing anything she was saying by that point. His ears were roaring with his own heartbeat, his eyes half-blinded with his tears.

"I can't do this anymore! I've tried so fucking hard to make this work and you're enough of a self-centered bint that you can do _this_ to me and pretend it has fuck-all to do with Mycroft. I am leaving! I'm out!"

"Greg! No! I won't do it again! Give me a chance!" She was hanging off his shoulder, but he shook her off, careful not to lay a hand on her because god only knew if she'd try to bring him up on domestic charges.

He grabbed his last few things, including his laptop, and stuffed them into the bag before throwing his coat on and hurrying out into the night, her voice wailing behind him.

He tossed his gym bag into the passenger seat as he got in his car, and started the engine with no clear idea of where to go or what to do. His head was swimming and he was pretty sure he was hyperventilating. Just drive, he told himself. You'll sort yourself out. Just drive.


	23. Kindness or Cruelty

Mycroft's doorbell rang, startling him out of the flow of one of his favorite noir films. The hour was late. Sherlock would never bother to ring, he'd just break in. Work would have called.

It had to be Gregory. Which meant that his marriage had just disintegrated. He rose and hurried for the door. A quick look at the security camera revealed his soulmate on his doorstep, devastated, with a gym bag suspended from one shoulder.

He quickly disarmed the security system and opened the door. "Gregory, please, come in." He took the bag from Greg and set it on the floor as he rearmed the locks. It took only a moment, and he reacquired the gym bag and led Greg into his drawing room, where he placed the bag on a table and turned to his soulmate. Greg stood there, silent and trembling, struggling to contain tears.

Mycroft opened his arms and Greg launched himself into Mycroft, clinging to him as he shook, weeping silently into Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft just held him and let him cry. "Do you need tea?" he asked, quiet, as he rested his cheek on Greg's hair. Greg nodded but didn't let go.

He didn't move until Gregory's arms loosened. "I-I didn't know what to do," Greg stammered, "where to go."

"You are here now, and you are safe," Mycroft said, finally allowing himself to trail his fingers through the man's salt and pepper hair. God, he had wanted for so long to touch him like that but had always refrained. They stepped back from each other and Mycroft regarded him carefully, noting the red eyes, the exhaustion, the defeat in his posture. He slid his hands up Greg's arms and squeezed his shoulders. "I shall make tea, and we shall talk."

Greg nodded and followed Mycroft into the kitchen; the kettle was put on, the tea set prepared, and a few ginger biscuits set out to go with them. Greg remained silent, just watching, his face cascading through a complex series of emotions.

Once the tea was ready and they had again retired to the drawing room, Greg said, "You knew. When did you know?"

Mycroft nodded. "From the beginning. I'm sorry."

" _Why didn't you say anything_?" The pain in Greg's voice cut Mycroft to the heart.

"What would you have had me say? That your wife, whom you loved, and to whom you were devoted, was seeing other people? That you should leave her for me - a gay man - when you were determined to stay with her, and you barely acknowledged your bisexuality even to yourself?" Greg's eyes widened, and Mycroft continued. "Would you have accepted my words? Would you have dismissed them as jealousy? Would you have forgiven her?" He paused. "Would you have forgiven me?"

Greg was shaking again, the teacup in his hand rattling slightly on the saucer. He set it on the table. "I… I don't know." 

"You're upset and angry, with her and with me, and that is entirely reasonable and natural. You would have been in this state whether I had revealed her infidelity or not. Despite that we are soulbonded, had I exposed her actions to you, there would always have been some question in your mind -- was my act a kindness or a cruelty? Was I acting in your interest or my own?" He sighed, a bare breath of air. "Painful as it was for both of us, I felt it was best to keep my own counsel, to allow you to discover this on your own, as I knew you surely would. To know for certain, rather than to accept my word and always carry some shard of doubt within your heart."

Greg looked down at the floor and nodded, studying the carpet. "Why do you always have to be right?" There was no heat in his voice, only defeat and resignation. It gave Mycroft no pleasure whatsoever. He looked up, almost meeting Mycroft's eyes. "We're meant to trust each other, soulmates."

"I trusted you to come to your own conclusions."

Greg buried his face in his hands, crying again, his shoulders shaking as he made small, agonized sounds in the silence of the room. Mycroft went to him and knelt at his feet, taking Greg into his arms. "I'm here for you," he whispered. "Whatever you need, anything that I can do to help, it's yours."

Blindly, Greg reached for him, arms slipping around Mycroft's body until they were clinging to each other and he felt Greg's hot, wet breath on the curve of his neck. Mycroft held Greg as he sobbed, bereft, rubbing his back gently to try to ease some of the pain.

"Don't… don't know what to do, where to go. I don't…" Greg's voice was broken and stressed.

"You may stay here, if you wish, Gregory. A room can be prepared for you. You may stay for as long as you need, whether temporarily until you find yourself a flat, or whether you would like to remain here on a more permanent basis until you find your footing again and can make clear-headed decisions regarding your life and our bond." He nuzzled Greg's temple, wanting to kiss him but not doing so. It was far too soon for such things, and Greg was much too vulnerable. "Anything you wish. A few hours, or a lifetime. That decision is yours."

Greg shuddered, rocking back and forth in his pain as Mycroft held him. " _Why_?" he asked, his voice muffled by Mycroft's neck. "Why would she do that to me?"

"Only she could answer that question, and I doubt that even she clearly understands her motives. That discussion, though, can wait for another day." Mycroft's heart ached for his soulmate. "For tonight, please, just let me care for you. Let me give you shelter in your time of need."

Sniffling, Greg nodded, and Mycroft relaxed his guard. Gregory would stay. It was enough.


	24. Not Alone

Greg lay in the strange bed, arms crossed behind his head, as he stared up at the ceiling. The street lights through the half-open curtains angled dim light into the room. The traffic sounds from the street below were muffled by the thick, secure windows.

They had talked for a couple of hours before Greg was so exhausted he could barely see. Mycroft had led him to this room, where he'd laid out a couple of extra blankets and put Greg's bag on the bed. He'd given Greg one last hug, and left him to try to sleep. For all his trying, it had never arrived, though at least lying down was vaguely restful.

He tugged his hand out from under his head and held it up in front of his face. His wedding ring glinted dimly in the gloom. Tears sprang up again, even after he thought he'd cried himself out on Mycroft's shoulder, and he hated his own weakness. His blindness and his fucking oblivious willingness to overlook the subtle signs that something had been wrong.

Karen's jealousy should have been a massive red flag.

His stomach churned as he tugged and twisted at the ring to get it off his finger. It had been there so long that it was slightly too small now, and it was uncomfortable pulling it off. If that wasn't a metaphor for the entire thing, he didn't know what was. He dropped the ring on the bedside table, where it landed with a small, solid sound. It rolled for a moment and stopped against the bedside lamp. Greg massaged the empty space on his finger.

It felt wrong.

It felt right.

He had no idea how he felt.

Restless despite his exhaustion, he couldn't stay in bed longer. He'd have to go in to work in a couple of hours anyway; pretend he was fine and get on with things. He wasn't looking forward to it. He'd been veering wildly between numb and devastated all night, and work would be a right bitch in that condition. He could already imagine the looks he'd get when people noticed he wasn't wearing the ring.

Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet and wrapped the soft brown robe Mycroft had left for him around his body. Maybe coffee would help. He shoved his feet into his battered, wooly slippers against the cold of the wooden floors and padded silently down the stairs toward the kitchen.

It took Greg a few minutes to find the coffee press and something to put in it. Trust Mycroft to not have anything instant that Greg could just dump hot water on and guzzle for the pure caffeine content. As he waited for the coffee to brew, there was a quiet sound behind him and he turned. Mycroft stood, wearing his robe and pyjamas, in the kitchen doorway, his hair in disarray. Greg's heart tightened with affection at the sight.

"I thought you were asleep?" Greg said, blinking and rubbing his eyes.

Mycroft shook his head. "No. I was feeling a bit unsettled. If you'd rather be alone I could..." He pointed over his shoulder, out of the kitchen.

"Nah. I may not be in much of a mood for talk, but I'd kind of rather not be alone."

"Perfectly understandable." Mycroft crossed the room to Greg, carefully laying a hand on his shoulder and rubbing gently. Greg knew how hard that kind of physical affection still was for Mycroft after so many years of isolation. He said nothing but turned and wrapped Mycroft in his arms, resting his head on Mycroft's shoulder, grateful for the warmth. Mycroft, wordless, returned the embrace and they stood until Greg's coffee was probably ruined. Not that it mattered, he'd undoubtedly had worse, and enough milk and sugar would probably salvage the stuff.

There was a tiny core of calm between them, a comforting silence that let Greg simply be, without having to think or act. Much as he wanted to be infuriated with the man for saying nothing, he couldn't. Not in that moment. 

When Greg realized his coffee was probably not going to be just ruined, but _cold_ , he pulled away. "I'll have to get ready for work soon."

"I know."

Greg poured his coffee, shaking his head. "I've got no bloody idea how I'm going to get through the day."

"I could make time to have lunch with you," Mycroft offered, pulling the milk from the fridge and setting it down by Greg's hand. "If you wish, by that time I can also arrange an appointment with a good divorce attorney."

"Oh, god," Greg groaned. "I don't even want to think about that. She didn't even want to let me out the door. It's going to be a terrible fight."

"I can set Sherlock on her trail, have him bring evidence of her adulteries."

Greg dumped more milk into the bitter black coffee than he usually liked. It was almost muddy from steeping so long. He snorted. "He doesn't go in for that shite. Chasing down cheaters is a negative number on that scale of his."

Mycroft's head tilted. He raised an eyebrow. "He'd do it for you."

"Oh, please. Sherlock doesn't do anything for anybody but himself. The thrill of the chase, the puzzles, that does it for him, not actually helping people." Greg tried the coffee and poured in more milk and some extra sugar.

Mycroft eyed him. "You could have just made a new cup. And Sherlock does actually care for you, though he'd never say so directly."

"You know that by magic?" The coffee wasn't quite so awful now.

"I know because he came to me some time ago and told me to tell you about what she was doing."

Greg scowled. "Couldn't be arsed to do it himself, obviously." He glared at Mycroft, angry again. "Nor could you."

Mycroft looked contrite, his eyes cast down to the counter where Greg had rested his mug. "He felt that because it did not concern his working relationship with you, it was irrelevant for him. He insisted that I, on the other hand, bore some responsibility for your emotional wellbeing due to our soulbond."

"You might say that, yeah," Greg snapped.

"One might say I ought to tell Sherlock about our sister, as well, but how much harm would that do to him? Even if I do decide to tell him, how should I mitigate that damage? How shall I prepare him to hear that? And how much harm would this news have done to you, coming from me? No decision I could possibly have made would have been the right one. To act, not to act; both condemn me as heartless and cruel." Mycroft's breath shook, and then he steadied himself. "I accept my culpability and that my inaction brought you pain. For that, I am truly sorry. But I beg you to consider that the alternative would have done the same."

Greg closed his eyes, squeezing them shut against the burning of tears he didn't want to shed. He felt Mycroft lay a warm, hesitant hand over his. After a moment, Greg turned his hand and twined their fingers together, holding tightly. "You are my friend," he choked out through the tightness in his throat, "and my soulmate. And I'm grateful beyond measure that you're here for me right now, but I'm still angry with you and I don't know how to cope with this."

"I know," Mycroft whispered. "We will find a way, together, if you'll allow me that privilege."


	25. Brothers

Mycroft noted that it had taken more than a week for Greg's emotional state to stabilize, and almost two for the deep depressive spikes to ease. By the end of the third week after his departure from his marital home, Greg had found himself a suitable, though very small, flat near central London. Greg had refused any financial assistance from Mycroft, which bothered him greatly. One was supposed to assist a soulmate during their times of need, and if a difficult divorce was not such a thing, Mycroft was uncertain what else would qualify.

He did, however, take up Mycroft's offer to find him an excellent divorce attorney, as Karen had begun something of a campaign to paint the separation as Mycroft's fault for being Greg's soulmate, rather than her own lack of desire for her husband. Gregory hadn't taken it well, but both he and Mycroft had expected the argument to be made.

Sherlock entered his flat, as usual, without knocking. "How many minutes did it take you to bypass security this time?" Mycroft asked.

"Only ten. Your people are slipping." He dropped a folder on Mycroft's desk.

"I shall see that they are remanded to further training." He picked up the folder. "Karen Lestrade, I assume."

"She had quite the collection. Lestrade's obliviousness is rather painful, if you know the score. She averaged a new one about every six months. He may be the best of the professionals, but he's still a bit dim. Love does blind people to a ridiculous degree - something you should understand perfectly well, brother mine."

Mycroft launched a sharp eyebrow in Sherlock's direction and flipped through the file. "I shall thank you to keep your observations of my personal life to yourself for the moment."

Sherlock snorted. "I realize he's in denial, but you? Really, Mycroft. This soulmate thing has softened you."

He set the file down to deal with later. Leaning back in his chair, he gestured toward one of the wingbacks near the side of his desk. "Is that necessarily a bad thing?"

Sherlock sat and sighed. He steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. "I am as yet uncertain. The idea of your corpulent, odious person _in love_ is appalling. Yet your interference in my life has diminished recently in an acceptable fashion."

"I'm not 'in love', Sherlock. While I care for Gregory, I don't think my emotions can be so neatly categorized. He does… influence me." Mycroft's voice became more contemplative. "I hope, for the better. He's the one who has been arguing for me to step back and to trust you, despite your constant inability to keep yourself fed and sheltered. I wish you would find yourself a better place than that rat-infested basement near the museum."

"You've still not told Mummy about Lestrade," Sherlock countered. "It's been years."

"She'd be planning a wedding before either of us could take a breath," Mycroft said with a shudder.

Sherlock smirked. "Mmm. Yes. Odd how having one's life arranged without being consulted is annoying, isn't it?"

Mycroft couldn't help his hackles rising; he and Sherlock had spent far too many years needling each other for it to be easy to step back. "You have not, historically, tended to act in a responsible manner. I'm sorry if my attempts to keep you alive have been taken amiss."

"You still don't trust me," Sherlock snapped.

"I am _trying_ " Mycroft responded, equally irritated. "The number of nights you've spent in hospital tends to colour my attitude." He took a deep breath, trying to focus on the things Greg had said. "I'm trying," he repeated, more calmly. "If neither of us is making a great deal of progress, I would note that the effort needs to be mutual. I wish that you would attempt to trust me, as well. This cannot be a one-sided endeavour."

"Oh, that's all Lestrade, isn't it? You don't compromise on anything."

"I compromise willingly with him," Mycroft said. "Perhaps you could try it at some point."

Sherlock laughed. "You're just annoyed that he's not still ensconced in your guest room where you can feel free to lay your pudgy fingers on him at all hours."

Mycroft shook his head and covered his eyes with one hand, tired to death of Sherlock's insults and insinuations. "He is my soulmate, not my prisoner. He's currently dealing with _her_ on a far-too-regular basis. It's only natural that he wishes to have his own flat, where he can recover from his emotional wounds as he sees fit." Mycroft looked back up at Sherlock. "I know that you care about him as well, little brother." He tapped the file Sherlock had brought him. "You'd never have done this for anyone else."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "Lestrade's wife is offensive. And he was far too forgiving."

"I won't hurt him, Sherlock," Mycroft offered, his voice gentle. "For all your deductive skill, I don't know if you can ever entirely understand what this is like for us. What it's like for me."

"You don't do friends."

"I never imagined that I would want one, until I met him." Mycroft could see the shadow of unspoken hurt in Sherlock's eyes. "Even with him in my life, I will never abandon you."

Sherlock said nothing, collecting himself and departing as suddenly as he'd appeared, leaving Mycroft with the file on Karen Lestrade.


	26. A Negative Seven

When Greg's divorce attorney called for him to come pick up his decree absolute, it was a relief. Karen hadn't dared contest even though she obviously wanted to, and Greg had got to keep more of his paycheck than he'd expected.

Actually, he'd got to keep all of it, because when the judge saw the stack of copies of the petition being sent out to all the people that adulterous bint had slept with over the years, she'd nearly had a heart attack. So had Greg, really. That bit was Sherlock's doing, though, finding the names of all of them and insisting they all be served. Greg had never imagined he'd do it, not in a million years. Mycroft told him it hadn't taken any actual persuading. Greg wondered how many other marriages had blown up along with his own.

He didn't consider himself a particularly vindictive person, but knowing what she'd done to him, he had to admit he'd felt a vicious, petty sense of satisfaction that he could make them as miserable as they'd all made him. Just this once, he thought, maybe he could be a bit the smaller man.

Everyone at work had tiptoed around him for weeks after he'd left her, before he'd finally got himself together again. The anger and the pain had taken a while to ease. Through it all, Mycroft had been there, patient and supportive but not trying to push Greg to forgive him for not saying anything.

Scylla and Charybdis, Mycroft had called it, one late night when they'd been having a drink together at Greg's after he'd moved out of Mycroft's flat. He couldn't stay angry at him; Greg could see how hard that decision was on him, and the more he thought about it, the clearer it became. Mycroft, who didn't trust anyone, had trusted him. Trusted Greg to see what was happening. Trusted him to make his own decision. Trusted him enough to live with him, even if it had only been for a couple of weeks. 

Mycroft Holmes, whose profession was suspicion and secrecy, had trusted Greg and thought him intelligent enough to discover the truth. That was the long and the short of it. It had been painful, but it had never been a betrayal of Greg's trust. In his own way, Mycroft had been trying to take care of him.

He picked up his phone and called the man. "It's done," he said, when Mycroft answered, "but you probably already knew that. I just got the papers."

"Do you wish to celebrate, or are you feeling more contemplative?" Mycroft asked.

Greg thought for a moment before responding. "I'd like to celebrate," he said. "With you. If that's all right."

"Of course," Mycroft said, and Greg could hear the warmth in his soulmate's voice. It eased the tightness in his chest and made him smile. "I shall send a car for you when you're done at work. Do you have a preference regarding the venue?"

"Nah, you choose. I'm sure wherever it is will be fine."

"Then I shall see you this evening."

Greg wasn't surprised when he ended up at Mycroft's flat that evening. Actually, he was pretty pleased by it. He'd not been in the mood for a crowd. Mycroft took his coat and hung it up, then took him into the library with one warm hand on his shoulder and Greg relaxed into it, finally feeling like a ten tonne weight had been lifted from him.

"God, your brother," Greg said, once he'd had half a gin and tonic in him. "Came to me with that list of names and said, 'Really, Gareth, your wife's predilection for unattended penis is a negative seven as cases go.' I wanted to chin him."

Mycroft barely smothered a snorted laugh. "He meant well," he said, chuckling.

Greg laughed. "Yeah, yeah, he did. Which was why I didn't do it." He'd been appalled at the time, but Sherlock never did have much of a filter. It was a lot funnier looking back at it than being in the middle of it.

"Your restraint is admirable, as ever." Mycroft raised his glass to him.

"I may need to call him in soon, though. Got this weird string of suicides that all seem connected, but I can't figure out how or why."

Mycroft sipped his drink. "He may not be immediately available. He's considering a relocation. He's been offered a flat in Baker Street, though he tells me he's looking for someone to flatshare with."

"Sherlock? Flatshare?" Greg's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline.

"I shall have to ensure that his potential flatmates are investigated properly," Mycroft grumbled. "You know the sort he tends to associate with."

Greg set his drink on the table. "Mycroft, I know your first instinct is to run in and scare the crap out of the poor bastard to see if he won't bolt the minute Sherlock starts getting a bit himself--"

Mycroft glowered. "Really."

"Yeah, really. I know you've done it. Sherlock's complained of you scaring everyone off. I mean, I know he exaggerates a lot when it comes to you, but I've also seen your wall of ice act and if I didn't know you, I'd be a bit put off as well. You were going to try it on me when we first met."

Mycroft's eyes shifted away for a moment. "You're right, I was."

"He's got to learn to take care of himself. And you've got to learn to let him do it."

"But--"

"But, but." Greg brushed it away with a wave of his hand. "Yeah, he's going to make mistakes. He's going to irritate the crap out of people. But eventually he's going to learn. He won't if you don't let him, like you let me."

"You are a mature adult. And I have to be certain they're not foreign agents or drug peddlers!" Mycroft insisted.

Greg sighed. "And for that you've got background investigations. You don't have to terrify them all face to face, Mycroft!"

"Not even a little?" Mycroft gave him a fake plaintive face and Greg laughed. Mycroft smiled back at him and, even though Greg had got used to the light around him, it still gave him the shivers sometimes. Moments like this left him feeling a bit soppy and affectionate. Maybe even a bit attracted, but he wasn't quite ready to examine that, yet.

"Well," Greg allowed, "maybe just a little." He finished his gin and tonic and set the glass down.

"It's just so much easier when I can see them, assess their reactions in real time rather than on paper or through the filter of the CCTV system. I need to know more about them than a file will tell me."

"So just try inviting them for a coffee or something."

"Sherlock would adore that, I'm sure." Mycroft looked like he'd smelled something foul.

"It's not like he appreciates your kidnapping them, either. And if you invite them for a coffee, everyone will be less traumatized."

Mycroft, pensive, said, "I shall take it under advisement." Which probably meant he'd ignore Greg's advice, but maybe he'd think about it a little beforehand. Baby steps.


	27. Resolute

Greg sighed as he joined Mycroft in the Strangers' Room late that evening. "Had to shake your brother down for evidence with a drugs bust this evening. That new bloke who's following him around is… interesting."

"I'm reserving judgment for the moment," Mycroft said. "Though I suppose 'interesting' is as good an assessment as any."

Greg raised one eyebrow. "You kidnapped him, didn't you?"

"I… invited him to a private conversation, if you will."

"At Battersea. After dark. Alone."

Mycroft nodded. "As you say. I did not, however, do anything particularly intended to put the fear of Her Majesty's Government into him." He hadn't done nearly the amount of priming intimidation he'd originally planned. Unfortunate. Having his people hack into ATM displays to send messages was always somewhat amusing. Good for training purposes, at the very least.

Greg chuckled. "So you were just your usual vaguely menacing, elegant self?"

"Really, Gregory." Elegant? Interesting.

"What part are you objecting to, the vaguely menacing, or the elegant?" Greg asked, smiling.

Mycroft wasn't even sure where to begin with that question. "I suppose I'd most object to the 'vaguely'."

Greg's chuckle became an outright laugh. He shook his head fondly and Mycroft smiled back at him. "Oh, yeah, you would," he said. 

"I didn't realize you found me elegant." The thought gave Mycroft a frisson of hope that he tried very hard to suppress.

"Yeah," Greg said, his laugh fading as his face became more serious. "Yeah, I do. I -- that doesn't bother you, does it?" There was a hint of tension in his dark brown eyes now. Mycroft was sorry that his statement had put it there.

"Not at all. I'm honestly more concerned about your own reaction to that thought. You've mentioned your rejection of labels regarding your own orientation, and you are aware of mine. I shouldn't wish you to find yourself uncomfortable around me."

Greg sighed. He shrugged and slumped further into his chair, unconsciously making himself smaller. "I'm… Maybe 'uncomfortable' isn't the right word. I don't think I could be, with you. I just… I don't know, Mycroft. You've been here for me through some really rough spots. You've been amazing and, after all this time, you've genuinely become my best friend."

Mycroft nodded. "And you are free now and uncertain what to do with yourself or what comes next." Greg nodded silently, waiting for Mycroft to continue. "Nothing more need happen," Mycroft said quietly. "If friends is all we ever are, I shall cherish that, and your friendship. We are… bonded, and that is a gift that I would never have conceived of receiving. If, at any point, you ever wish for our friendship to become more, I would be open to that discussion, but you must be ready to have it. This will always and ever go only so far as you desire."

Mycroft's words did nothing to ease the troubled crease in Greg's brow, but he was no longer shrinking into the chair with some strange desire to be invisible. "May I remind you that the vast majority of soulmates have platonic relationships, like ours." The soft, suffuse light around Gregory made Mycroft's heart ache but he continued as though it did not affect him. "I am content. Dare I say, I am _happy_ that you are a part of my life. I never… imagined myself happy." He leaned forward and reached across the small gap between their chairs, taking Greg's hand. His soulmate's fingers twined with his, trembling slightly.

"I don't think I've ever been happier," Greg whispered. "I just… sometimes I can't help but imagine that we might be... more. I don't even know what 'more' looks like."

Mycroft caressed Greg's hand gently with his thumb and felt the man shiver. Mycroft's pulse thudded relentlessly, his chest tight, and he closed his eyes against his own desire. "Then you obviously need more time to consider it."

"I've just got so little experience with other men. A few snogs, a mutual wank here and there, decades ago. Nothing more."

Mycroft looked up at him, contemplative. Resolute. He would not push. Such things must be allowed to bloom on their own schedule. He had no doubt that if Gregory ever bloomed, he would be glorious. Radiant. Beautiful. And if Mycroft had to wait until his dying breath or beyond, he would hold their friendship and their bond sacred. "We have all the time you need," he said. "We have our entire lives before us. I will always be here for you."

Greg's eyes closed and tears shimmered unshed in his lashes. His fingers tightened in Mycroft's. "Thank you," he breathed.


End file.
